


[To Overcome] When the Storm Rolls In

by WickedIntentions



Series: "...Yes, Master." [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet Ending, Bloodplay, Bondage, Degradation, Dubious Consent, Forced Worship, Heavy Plot Dotted with Kinky Smut, Humiliation, Master/Slave, Orgasm Denial, Other, Power Imbalance, Sadism, Self-Loathing, Sexual Acts with a Demonic Creature, Size Kink, Torture, Unrealistic Expectations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 12:12:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 70,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8624047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedIntentions/pseuds/WickedIntentions
Summary: Halfway through the Second Era, a young Breton woman unwittingly stumbles into eternal servitude to the Daedric Prince of Domination and Brutality, Molag Bal, who is looking to restore his former power since it was taken from him by the Vestige.She's neither the champion he had in mind, nor is she capable of the role, but she has no choice but to carry out his will on Nirn—or risk invoking his brutal punishment.





	1. A Fallen God Emerges from the Shadows

> _Act I: The Thorny Paths We Walk_
> 
> _“Are you prepared to submit yourself completely to the Lord of Domination for an eternity of servitude?”_

_24th Day of Hearthfire, 2E 589_

     The salt-tinged air swept across the waves that crashed gently against the shore and combed through the yellowed brush lining the worn-rock paths. The sun was descending to kiss the ocean, leaving a vibrant explosion of oranges and pinks in its wake, as birds squawked in farewell from their perches on the dock posts. Tamriel’s music lilted through the small settlement, unhindered by the cacophony of travelers milling about and bartering heatedly over prices.

     In Northsalt Village, so remotely tucked away behind the mountains and crags of Rivenspire and at least a couple hours away from the nearest major city, it was easy to lose oneself in the sounds of nature. Its only inhabitants were a small handful of people who left their windows open and, if the inclination arose, lounged outside near their merchant stalls with the hope of catching a passerby’s eye, if one felt the need to come so far north.

     As beautiful as the seaside village had the capacity to be at first glance, especially close to sunset, its location didn’t favor its few struggling merchants; there was almost nothing worthwhile that would merit someone taking the time to travel so deeply into the region. The townsfolk often spoke about dreams of moving to Northpoint—or perhaps Shornhelm, if they could manage the journey far to the south—but they were nothing more than idle words. Any money they managed to earn was more often than not pooled together to ensure that nobody went hungry and everyone had shelter from the elements and ferocious wildlife.

     In addition to its unfavorable location, its dark history did well to keep all but the most daring visitors at bay despite the number of years that had passed since the terrible calamity. A black aura hung over Northsalt Village, reminiscent of the days when deathly pale, snarling men and women roamed the abandoned houses through the night, desperately tasting for blood on the wind to ambush any unfortunate soul who chanced by. It had taken much effort to shake the memory of the bloodfiends, but hushed rumors and stories were still passed around the pubs of Rivenspire and the bordering regions.

     To the villagers, the nightmare was over once the infestation of feral vampires had been cleared out, leaving the town’s ravaged remains to have new life breathed into them. However, lulled into a false sense of security, they were completely unprepared for the next terrible gift from the deities, which claimed beloved family members and neighbors, tearing the bonds of the survivors’ fragile sanity asunder.

     Not a single family emerged unscathed—including the Gaering family, consisting of a trio of Bretons struggling to find their tiny place in the vast world.

     “You were born lucky,” Elyssa Gaering’s mother had informed her on more than one occasion throughout her life, despite the holes in their roof that leaked rainwater no matter how many times they tried to fix it; despite the cracked earth on which their impoverished village stood and the cold, salty air which they breathed; despite the sickness that unexpectedly crept beneath the doors, diminishing their already few numbers in only a couple months.

     “You will never be in a situation from which you cannot find yourself,” she persisted weakly, mere hours before she took her last rasping breath and finally succumbed to her own grisly end from the sickness.

     Not a day went by that Elyssa didn’t wonder what her mother meant when she imparted those optimistic sentiments to her. With each passing year, with each struggle to keep their house and land, she and her father found themselves barely maintaining a foothold. Too poor to pack their belongings and find a place to live in a more prosperous location—and too limited by the few worthwhile professions the area allowed for—the two Bretons were stuck in an endless loop of misfortune, from which it seemed impossible to escape.

     Her mother’s last words would become even more baffling when, on that day during the waning daylight, with the melody of the waves breaking upon the shore and the wind whistling through the grass, the sleepy little settlement would receive more excitement than they had in years—and the words would escalate further to the point of inconceivable when the young Breton’s life would take a drastic turn for the worse because of it.

     Elyssa was on the verge of calling it a day and packing away the wares on display at her stall when, in the distance, she noticed a small army of silver approaching. Before she spied the glint of the polished armor, she heard the clinking of metal upon metal and the rumbling cadence of footfalls on the dry path. She grew simultaneously excited and nervous at the prospect of what the soldiers’ presence signified. Did they have business in Northsalt Village, or was it just a landmark on the way to their destination?

     Rearranging her ingredients into careful lines to give her antsy hands something to do, she waited for the marching men and women to arrive. In the meantime, she exchanged meaningful looks across the square with her fellow villagers, who all undoubtedly had similar questions burning in their minds. They never received soldiers so far north and wondered if they needed to worry about their intentions.

     Past Kinther, who was stringing up his finest catches from that afternoon, and Shel, who was tilting her baked goods enticingly so—with hopes that the breeze would carry the scent toward the soldiers—the newcomers continued, sparing not a single glance toward the hopeful shopkeepers. Backs straight and eyes forward, they finally came to a halt and snapped to attention at the shrill whistle from their commander.

     Elyssa, engrossed in the sight of the flawless military formation, quickly realized that the commander and a man who appeared to be his second-in-command were heading straight toward her. She pushed a lock of dark-brown hair out of her face and offered a polite smile. “Welcome to Northsalt Village. May I interest you in any alchemical ingredients or concoctions?”

     “We’ll take as many healing potions as you can spare. We’re going to need them all,” the commander told her, grim-faced and heavily scarred. He dropped a bag on the counter, and the sharp rattle of numerous heavy coins colliding with each other punctuated his words.

     She glanced at the sizable bag with a hint of dismay, her smile diminishing. “Oh… Most likely you have given me far too many coins, sir. We don’t keep many on hand. You see, the potency fades over time, and we don’t receive many soldiers. The ingredients are usually wasted.”

     He swore quietly under his breath and shared a quick look with his equally grim, blond companion. Turning back to her, he demanded, “How long does it take to produce more?”

     Elyssa toyed with the frayed edge of one of her sleeves and sank slightly under the weight of their expectations. She wished her father would return and take charge of the business, but she knew it was far too soon. The journey to Shornhelm took at least a week one-way, and he had departed only a couple days ago. Only through a magical portal would he have been able to finish his dealings in that amount of time, and a magical portal was not something they had.

     Regretfully, she informed him, “The brewing process itself takes a couple days… not including the time it would take to locate and gather the ingredients needed.”

     The man’s brow pinched into an impatient glare at her words. “You have no such ingredients here? And you declare yourself an alchemy merchant?”

     The young Breton opened her mouth to defend her family’s business, to explain that the ground became sour because of the tragedies that had taken place, out of their control, in Northsalt Village—that the majority of what they could find growing amongst the snarled weeds were better suited to poison-making—but the lieutenant put a calming hand on his commander’s shoulder, not allowing the opportunity.

     “It was a gamble waiting this far along in our journey to purchase our supplies. Don’t take your frustrations out on this girl. It’s not her fault that Rivenspire is not fertile like the fields of Glenumbra. Come, we’ll just have to make do with what she has to offer and what we already brought with us,” he advised before turning on his heel to address the group of soldiers standing primly a short distance away.

     Elyssa wordlessly retrieved a leather pouch and filled it with the few healing potions in her stock. She couldn’t help but eavesdrop while the impatient man in front of her counted out the correct number of coins from his own pouch. Her eyes wandered beyond his bulky, armored form.

     “…facing an unknown number of enemies. These are only rumors, but they are believed to be vampires—cultists who wish to complete a dark ritual for the benefit of a Daedric prince most foul,” the lieutenant informed his subordinates. “Not many details of the ritual are known, only that there have been a number of abductions near this area, most likely sacrifices. A witness in Northpoint caught sight of some hooded figures headed toward the Doomcrag, so that’s our best bet.”

     The Doomcrag—it was yet another bane of Rivenspire, housing its own terrible, dark secrets and tragic history. Located a few hours west of Northsalt Village, it was often avoided like a flesh-eating plague, making it an all-too-perfect hideaway for any manner of unsavory man or mer, beast, or Daedra.

 _Abductions?_ Elyssa hadn’t seen any suspiciously hooded figures pass by, and every person in her four-person village was presently accounted for, except for her father, who was on his trading expedition. If cultists had abducted people and headed for the Doomcrag, they would have had to pass directly through Northsalt to get there. Sheathed by a barrier of spiky, towering mountains, it was impossible to reach except for a discreet opening in northern Rivenspire—or so the rumors described.

     A tight knot of worry clenched in her breast as she thought of her father and his ill timing for travel. Every time he left for several weeks, laden down with goods from the villagers, she dreaded if he would meet trouble along his path. The road to Shornhelm was a well-traveled one, but, out in the wilds of the Daggerfall Covenant, one always had to be wary of what dangers may lurk along the path. Nonetheless, it had to be done, and her father was the only person who owned a cart large enough to carry all the goods and was in possession of a horse, as weary and old as the steed was.

     The commander passed her the coins, gave a nod as she handed him the pouch of potions in exchange, and turned away.

     That should have been the end of her interactions with the soldiers and the end of her aid for them. However, watching them count their meager supplies and instinctively knowing that, if they were to encounter something as ghastly as vampire cultists, it wouldn’t be enough to protect them, she jumped into action. Something possessed her to heave in a deep breath and step around her stall, to catch their attention with a raised hand and a loud, “Wait!”

     They hadn’t yet begun to march onward, still distributing potions and such, so she was free to pose her suggestion to them without much difficulty.

     “Allow me to accompany you,” she insisted before she could mentally talk herself out of it. Although the thought of coming face-to-face with a vampire, or several, intimidated her greatly, Stendarr’s teachings had been instilled in her. “I have some knowledge of restoration magic. It’s the least I can do to help you.”

     The commander and his lieutenant exchanged furrow-browed looks at that, appearing hesitant. Their dilemma was obvious. On one hand, they could use the extra healing. On the other, they would be dragging a young girl into possibly hellish depths with no guarantee that they would return. It didn’t take them long to respectfully decline her offer and depart.

     But she wasn’t deterred; the refusal only managed to motivate her. With a glance at the soldiers’ retreating backs, she gathered up her stock and took it into the house behind her in two quick trips. She grabbed her sanded maple restoration staff from a dusty trunk in her room, knelt to send a prayer to the Divines for their protection on her dangerous excursion, and stumbled down the steps of her family’s house in her haste to follow the unit’s movement westward. With the fading light of her village’s flickering torches at her back, she rushed forward into the unknown.

     It didn’t take long to catch sight of the soldiers in the distance as she jogged along the cracked path. Under the last tendrils of the sun’s light, they were beacons marking the way for her. At her proximity, she could also hear the faint clinking of metal, and she slowed her pace to a walk. It was enough to keep them in sight but not to alert them to her presence. She didn’t intend to reveal herself until they arrived at the Doomcrag, when they would have no choice but to accept her help—or so she hoped. If they continued to turn her away even then, the long trip would be for naught. She wisely decided not to think about that scenario so as to not discourage herself.

     A part of her acknowledged that life as the daughter of a small-time alchemy merchant and trader was lacking the excitement she craved in her monotonous life. The thought of standing at the backs of soldiers while they dealt with the threat of evil cultists, of having the chance to use her limited restoration skills to aid them in their mission and prove herself useful, excited her quite a bit, rather like a girlhood dream come alive. Who knew where it could lead once they emerged victorious? It filled her with a giddy energy.

     Once the sun dropped below the ocean and a veil of inky blackness was thrown over sleeping Rivenspire, Elyssa quickly lost track of time as she followed behind the clattering armor, which did well to scare away any curious night-time creatures. With her route unlit by a much-needed torch, she resorted to using her staff to feel along in front of her for obstacles while she squinted through the darkness.

     The path wound nearly parallel to the shore, and the waves rolled in gently as they traveled deeper behind the dark backdrop of spiky mountains reaching valiantly for the stars. The sounds of water lapping against rocks and frogs croaking to one another crafted a soothing melody. It was easy to forget about the possibility of a sinister presence finding solace within the mountains, and it felt more like a calming evening walk to the young Breton, who yawned hugely into her fist.

     The farther they traveled, the more Elyssa yearned to be snuggled safely in her bed. Normally, she would have been asleep at that hour, and, as a result, her attention to her surroundings slowly waned. As the sky was blotted out by a rocky outcropping, she stubbed her toe against a jutting stepping stone and barely stifled a yelp, throwing her arms out to keep her balance. Now fully awake, she noted with dread that the movements of the soldiers were undetectable through the sounds of nature and that she had fallen behind in her exhaustion. Quickening her pace, she splashed through the shallow water that swallowed her ankles until the starlit sky appeared once again overhead.

     With Tamriel’s moons hanging unhindered high above, she was able to discern the blurry outlines of some of the ancient ruins dotting the shore and carefully climbed her way over the slippery rocks, listening carefully for her missing entourage. Leaping from her perch atop a cluster of mossy stone, she landed in the ocean water as a wave rolled in and soaked the bottom few inches of her dress. Gingerly, she picked her way back to the path, which resumed on the other side of the ruins.

     Suddenly, a horrible feeling washed over her—pure, inexplicable dread laced with fear—and stopped her dead in her tracks. It was a fear she had never felt before, as if her very life were in danger. With an empty lump weighing heavily in her chest, she stood in place and stared blankly ahead, unable to explain the potent feeling. The longer she stood there, the more the near-silence unnerved her, and she finally snapped out of her daze, slightly sickened. There was a tingle on the back of her neck, an urge to look behind and make sure nothing was staring her down, and she hesitantly indulged herself. But, when she swiveled her head around, there was nothing but the sprawling mass of ruins she had just traversed, which did little to comfort her, considering.

     Unable to completely shake the lingering terror, Elyssa broke out into a run, clutching her restoration staff to her chest. With her long hair whipping her face, she didn’t slow her strides until she could detect the soldiers far ahead of her, still dutifully marching toward their destination as if nothing were amiss. That familiar gleam of silver in soft torchlight amongst a black abyss was a relieving sight when she was trailing behind them, still unseen. As much as she wanted to announce her presence, she was still mindful of the fact that she had not been invited and would not be welcome within their ranks.

     She had never journeyed to the Doomcrag or the ruins encroaching upon it, but it was obvious when they finally arrived. Where there had been nothing but jagged mountains stretching on almost endlessly, it suddenly broke away into an entryway framed with wrought iron. The entrance was easily missable but undeniably their destination, and, although it marked the long journey as essentially complete, it was more foreboding than anything else. What sort of evil lurked just beyond, and what would become of them if they dared to enter the depths of the infamous Doomcrag?

     The soldiers paused to regroup, so Elyssa took that as her cue to reveal herself to them. Taking a steadying breath, she approached them until she was bathed in torchlight to appear as non-threatening as possible. She raised her voice to be heard over the muttering and cautiously broached, “Uh, hello?”

     They startled violently at her voice coming unexpectedly from behind them, clearly having not expected anyone to be following, and more than a few of the armored men and women turned their heads to stare at her.

     The commander stepped around his troops and lifted his torch to get a better look at Elyssa. Once her facial features registered, his mouth thinned in a terse line, and he gave her a suspicious glare. His tone was no less harsh when he demanded, “What exactly are you doing here, girl?”

     “I mean only to assist you,” she said. She stood up straight and met his stare to project confidence, though she was fairly intimidated by his hard disposition and briefly fretted over her reckless actions. “Please allow me to provide healing during your battle.”

     “It’s not as if you have given us a choice,” he muttered. “Although I told you back in Northsalt Village that we do not require your services, here you are. I can’t, in good conscience, tell you to turn back now that you are so far away from your home and unattended. …If you _must_.”

     Elyssa counted that as a victory and clutched her staff harder. As the point of no return approached, her innards fluttered with anxiety. She sent another quick prayer to the Divines for resolve during her daunting task and nodded. “I shan’t let you down.”

     “We shall see.” With a final irritated glance, the commander turned his back on her and reclaimed his place ahead of his army to address them. “We do not know exactly what lies within these ruins, only that its intentions are wicked. Be on your guard, watch each other’s backs. Akatosh willing, we all will endure whatever is thrown at us and return home to be hailed as heroes.”

     Stone-faced, and with those final words, the men and women passed through the entryway to the Doomcrag and began the lengthy ascension of the mountain, with their stowaway treading just at their heels.

     An intense wind picked up and whistled through cracks in the stone, howling like a werewolf under a full moon, and the shadows around them danced vigorously in time with the flames of the torches. Pebbles were kicked loose and sent skittering across the hard earth. Nobody spoke a word, as focused as they were while scoping their surroundings for any possible traps.

     Elyssa felt a faint prickle against her skin, and the former feeling of dread reappeared within her. She began gathering her small magicka reserve and cast a few warding glyphs over their heads. As weak as the glyphs were because of her lack of formal training, they were better than nothing and would protect, at the very least, against the weakest of malicious spells.

     There was a tenseness in the postures of every man and woman in the formation by the time they reached a stone door that led deeper into the ruins. It seemed that whatever evil aura permeated the air had affected the entire unit, and even the most resilient of warriors were completely on edge and glancing uneasily over their shoulders from time to time. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that what they had come looking for was very nearby.

     The commander moved forward and placed a hand against the stone door, which was adorned with an emerald-tinged carving of a branching tree. At his touch, it rumbled to life and slowly lifted, allowing entry. With a nod toward his lieutenant, he led the way into the dim depths and descended the stairwell. Half of the unit immediately followed behind its commander, leaving the lieutenant and Elyssa to wait with the other half. The remaining men and women drew their weapons and kept careful watch over the ominous shadows lurking at their backs.

     Worried, Elyssa peered between the ranks of soldiers into the darkness where the rest of their outfit had disappeared moments ago. She wanted to speak her mind, to wonder aloud how they would know if their companions needed assistance in battle, but nobody had said anything since they entered the Doomcrag. She didn’t want to be the first one to break the silence, knowing their stealth was crucial. Trying to meet anyone’s eyes to try to wordlessly convey her concern, she was dismayed when not a single person looked her way. Instead, she busied herself with casting another weak protection glyph over them.

     Nearly half an hour passed without movement, and even the lieutenant appeared uneasy by the lack of ambush or noises of battle from within the ruins. With such a thick, foul feeling hanging in the air, it didn’t seem right that nobody had encountered anything yet.

     “A few of us should enter and scout ahead,” the lieutenant muttered almost inaudibly. “I will stay behind for now. If you catch sight of them, return immediately and report to me.”

     Without hesitation, three soldiers volunteered themselves and marched into the dimness that had swallowed their companions.

     Elyssa moved forward to join them, but she was stopped by an arm outstretched before her. The lieutenant blocked her path and wordlessly shook his head. She frowned and said, “I should go with them in case something has happened.”

     “You’ll get in the way,” he told her. “Remember, your help wasn’t requested.”

     That comment didn’t sit well with her. It was true; she had forced herself on them. But she had come this far already. She was committed and harbored a strong desire to prove to these men and women that she could be an asset. With that in mind, she refused to be hindered in her mission and abruptly ducked beneath his arm, darting through the stone door before he could grab ahold of her.

     In her haste, Elyssa nearly tripped down the stairs, but she was able to regain her tentative balance by leaning against the narrow walls. She faintly heard the lieutenant curse her for her disobedience, but she disregarded him and continued at a slower pace, feeling the air become colder and damper with each step. A blue-flamed torch came into view ahead, casting an unnatural glow on the stones and the armor of the three soldiers descending ahead of her.

     She squinted until her vision adjusted to the light, and they stepped off the stairwell and entered a long, narrow stretch of corridor. Another blue torch beckoned them forward farther down the tunnel, and the small group heeded it.

     The ruins were still suspiciously silent, except for the rustling of armor plates as the soldiers moved, and it didn’t bode well for them or their missing companions. How far would they have to travel to catch up with them? Or had they already encountered something and were on their way back with good news?

     They refused to entertain the possibility of anything other than those two outcomes.

     When the hallway finally came to an end and split into two new pathways heading in opposite directions, they paused and took a few moments to decide what the best course of action would be. With four of them, they could further split up and explore both paths, but, with the fate of their commander and fellow soldiers unknown, they weren’t sure that dividing their numbers—when there were so few of them—was a good idea.

     Elyssa grew impatient with their indecision and arbitrarily began heading right. It was only when she had ventured past two more eerie blue torches that she realized she didn’t hear the telltale sounds of her companions following behind her. She stopped and swiveled around to see what was keeping them—and yelped loudly when she was greeted with the sight of the missing commander standing inches away. She leaped away from him in her panic, and she placed a hand over her wildly beating heart. “You… you frightened me!”

     He said nothing at first and didn’t seem to be looking directly at her, as if focused on something _through_ her. But, when she raised a hand to catch his attention, he finally looked at her. “It’s good that you’re here. I was looking for you.”

     “You were?” she asked skeptically. She tried to see if the other soldiers were behind him, but his bulky form blocked her line of sight.

     “Come with me. We’ll find the others. They’re just down the hall.”

     When he moved forward, Elyssa had a few seconds to shift onto her tiptoes to peer over his shoulder, but she didn’t see anyone behind him. Given no time to question him about the others’ whereabouts, she was shoved around to face forward. She bit back a retort at the rude treatment and complied, but something about the situation unnerved her greatly.

     Together, they journeyed deeper into the ruins, briefly passing through a dome-shaped room with broken bookcases and splintered furniture, before finding themselves in an identical corridor to the last one.

     Elyssa was thoroughly lost when they took a few abrupt turns, and she contemplated refusing to move another step until she received answers to the questions lingering in the forefront of her mind. Where were the scouts she left behind? Why was the commander separated from the half of the unit he had been with?

     …Why, after dismissing her more than once, had he been looking for her? Her skin crawled with the beginnings of panic.

     “Maybe I should go back to the others,” she spoke up hesitantly. As sure and determined as she had been when she first entered, she now was struggling to grasp onto remnants of her diminishing bravado.

     However, he wouldn’t allow it and urged her forward again when she slowed her pace. “We are almost there. The others are waiting.”

     “Please, I wish to go back,” she insisted. She attempted to duck under his arm like she had with the lieutenant, but it was unsuccessful when he caught her firmly by the back of her dress. “Let me go!”

     Although she struggled and attempted to trip him with her staff, he was undeterred and resorted to dragging her behind him. He didn’t glance her way or show a hint of emotion—he didn’t appear even a little bit irritated by her resistance.

     “Commander!” a voice suddenly called from behind.

     Elyssa twisted around to see the scouts jogging to catch up to them, but the commander didn’t acknowledge that he heard anything.

     “Commander!” the same voice repeated more insistently. “What are you doing? Where are the others?”

     Still, he said nothing and continued onward, keeping the same brisk pace, like he had somewhere to be in a hurry.

     “Commander!” a new voice spoke up. “Sir?”

     “I think something’s wrong; he won’t let me go!” Elyssa clawed at the gloved hand clutching her wrist, but it did nothing through the thick leather. She accidentally lost her grip on her restoration staff, and it clattered to the ground out of her reach. Her panic skyrocketed. “Help me!”

     There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere as they stepped into a yawning chasm of a room, adorned with rich, embroidered tapestries that seemed out of place in the abandoned ruins. The walls were ornately carved with unrecognizable symbols, the floor draped with a crimson runner leading up to a dais, which was the centerpiece of the room. It was lined with candles and dark, wet splashes that undoubtedly were the reason for a sharp tang of copper in the air. A few lifeless, nude bodies laid piled atop each other and spread across the dais like offerings, in various states of decay. Elyssa fought back a sickened gag when her terrified eyes landed on them.

     The stone was cold and hard beneath her, something one of her bare feet attested to—as she had lost one of her shoes while being dragged around like a rag doll—but the air burned hotly with no explanation for the source of heat. Coupled with the heady scent of blood, it was difficult to breathe, and she labored over each breath.

     She didn’t know what was going to happen to her, but she did know that she had found the hideout of the cultists that they had been hunting—and the commander who insisted she remain safely in her hometown was the one who dragged her into the middle of it.

     Dotted amongst the freshly deceased corpses of the missing soldiers, there were robed figures kneeling in front of the dais, their faces hidden from sight under the shadows of their cowls, but, when they glanced up as Elyssa and her captor passed, she could just barely make out the glow of red where their eyes should have been— _vampires._

     Vampires had always been a constant threat to the people of Rivenspire, a region that seemed to be plagued by them. It was well-known that they could wield influence over mortals and bend them like puppets as easily as they drank the blood from warm, living bodies. It was also no secret that vampires had been created by a terrible Daedric entity by the name of Molag Bal, and, while some resisted his calling, many were eager to serve his will.

     Elyssa closed her eyes in miserable defeat. The commander had undoubtedly become a thrall to the cultists and brought her for use in some sort of twisted ritual, and the others would quickly follow once they entered in search of them. Or, dare she think so ill of him, the commander had been working with the vampires from the beginning.

     She was brought closer to the pile of corpses, and a rotten stench wafted over her. Her eyes snapped open in time to see maggots worm their way through the exposed rib cage of one of the deceased women. Slapping a hand over her mouth, she was barely able to contain the bile that bubbled up at the back of her throat.

     There were a few cruel chuckles behind her as the cultists found dark amusement in her reaction.

     “Sons and Daughters of Coldharbour, our finest hour is nearly upon us,” a man intoned once the laughter subsided. “Our lord and master, Molag Bal, will be pleased with our sacrifices in his name.”

     The flames atop the circle of candles flickered slightly at a nonexistent wind, as if the words themselves had invoked the reaction, and the young Breton was trying her hardest not to look away from them and meet the glassy gaze of a corpse—to breathe from her mouth, rather than her nose. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes and slid down her cheeks at the realization of what was to befall her. Soon, she would be another lifeless body sacrificed for a Daedric prince, and her father—her poor father—he would never know what became of her when he returned home. A helpless sob escaped her lips when she thought of him all alone in the world.

_What have I done?_

     “Are you prepared to submit yourself completely to the Lord of Domination for an eternity of servitude?”

     The question seemed to be directed at her, but she wasn’t sure. Nonetheless, she opened her mouth in a last act of defiance to insist that she would never willingly serve such a vile creature, but she was cut off before she could.

     “Yes, I gladly follow in our lord’s wake, tending to his demands and spreading chaos in his name,” a man answered, his words colored with audible adoration and reverence. His declaration was like a hushed prayer, spoken to a deity in its holiest of churches—and not tucked away like a dirty secret in the mountains of Rivenspire while death and pain soured the air and blood stained the stone. “I consent to eternal servitude to Molag Bal as his champion, should he deem me worthy and have me.”

     Elyssa chanced a few more struggles to pry herself loose from the enthralled commander’s iron grip, to no avail, before she was thrown to the ground unceremoniously just before the dais. She lifted herself up on her hands and knees, pushing herself up in preparation to run now that the rare opportunity had presented itself.

     But, before she could move a muscle in any direction, there was a flash of silver above her. Something wet splattered the ground beneath her, but she felt nothing—until she caught sight of her upper arm, which was ripped open in a straight gash, pouring hot crimson and darkening the torn sleeve of her dress. That was when she realized that she had been cut, badly, and an explosion of pain darted through her entire arm and numbed her fingers. A scream burst from her throat, and her other hand hovered uselessly over the grisly wound, unsure of what to do to stop the profuse bleeding.

     The commander made to move again, rearing his arm back to strike at her, and she threw out her hand as a flimsy defense, cowering, her mind a babbling mess of half-formed thoughts and commands to her body in the fog of her pain and panic.

     Just before the blade could make contact again and possibly seal the end of her life, an arrow whizzed through the air and struck it, the force behind the impact knocking it out of the commander’s hand and sending it flying across the room, where it slid shrilly against the stone floor and scattered fleeting sparks.

     The remaining soldiers poured in with shouts, some lunging for the cultists with swipes of their swords and others lingering behind and firing volleys of poison-tipped arrows.

     Elyssa was knocked forward onto the dais in the confusion, sending a few candles rolling through the thick puddles of blood, and it took her only moments to notice that she was inches away from those milky, wrinkled orbs that swam with maggot larvae and stared blankly into Oblivion. She let out a panicked scream and fell backward, scooting away wildly.

     Someone roughly tripped over her form, kicking her in the ribs in the process, and the breath was stolen from her when the armored boot connected. Another person fell to the ground next to her, letting out a spine-chilling gargle of a throat awash with blood, before becoming silent and still. The sounds of metal clashing were deafening, as were the multitude of incomprehensible screams and shouts, and she couldn’t bring herself to glance up and see which side was faring worse, to take any of her remaining hope away.

     She could only sit there uselessly on the ground and try not to weep. With her restoration staff lost, she couldn’t use her limited spells to aid her companions, and it was a terrible feeling. Nothing had gone the way she expected it would, and regret upon regret piled upon each other like the bodies of Molag Bal’s sacrifices—lost potential, to be forgotten deep underground where no one would ever venture.

     The cries and sickening noises of flesh tearing apart under blade and arrow became fewer and fewer the longer she sat there, until the last body sagged and hit the ground. In the resulting silence, there was the barely audible, labored breathing of a fatally injured person, and that’s when Elyssa finally mustered the courage to look up from where she buried her face between her knees—only to swiftly wish she hadn’t.

     Everywhere she turned, she saw only death and carnage; she saw only a sea of red. Dismembered limbs lay next to twitching bodies, cultist and soldier alike, and not a single person was moving. Weapons and arrows, as well as plates of armor, covered the floor like a morbid armory. She retched into a pile next to her, emptying the meager contents of her stomach and adding vomit to the list of things that mixed and churned thickly in the air, though nothing could overwhelm the bloody stench.

     Like a slap to the face from a tentacle of the Sower of Fates himself, Elyssa was the only one to survive the battle, having spent it cowering pathetically, and it crushed her with guilt and self-loathing. The last living person took a final, quivering gasp of air before falling eternally silent, and the young Breton was left alone. Shakily, she pushed herself to her feet and tottered uneasily through the mass of bodies and parts, her stare blank and sunken.

     But, before she could take more than a few steps away from the dais, a strange wind suddenly whipped through the room, sending dramatic shadows marching across the walls when the blue flames were teased into motion. It tore at her hair and clothing, ruffling them into disarray. The dust from the ruins joined in, sending Elyssa into a violent coughing fit when it clouded her lungs.

     The very air burned all around her, and she spun on her heel to see what was happening. She spotted the blurry details of a newcomer through the storm.

     “Who…” she trailed off as the dust abruptly cleared. She was startled into silence, physically unable to complete her thought, when a pair of fiery blue eyes narrowed dangerously at her.

     “Who am I, you dare to inquire? Allow me to swiftly enlighten you,” a deep baritone rasped reproachfully. A Daedric creature stood atop the dais, sinister and towering in appearance, with an aura of power swirling around him. He gnashed his teeth, long and sharp like rows of blades, and he violently flicked his long reptilian tail in irritation. Corpses were carelessly crushed under his horned feet.

     Elyssa lost her footing and fell to her knees in front of him, as weak with terror as she was. Unable to look away, she unwittingly drank in the terrible sight of him—the cords of bulky muscle just beneath stretches of dark flesh; the massive pair of horns curling around his skeletal, angular face; and the spiked sash wrapped around his hips and the sweep of tattered cloth hanging between his muscular thighs.

     “I have many titles. I am Lord of Domination and of Brutality, God of Lies and of Schemes. But you, mortal…” the creature continued, pinning her with an intense stare, “…you may address me as ‘Master.’”

     Staring horror-struck into that wretched gaze and surrounded by the bodies of her fallen allies, Elyssa could only wonder, faintly again in the back of her mind, what her mother meant when she was born lucky. At that moment, completely alone with the most brutal of Daedric princes, she seemed the unluckiest person in all of Tamriel.


	2. An Unfortunate Mortal is Forced to Succumb

> _“He will forever toil in my foundry. An eternity of labor awaits him, if you desire it. Should he grow weary and stop, there will be the sting of a whip upon his back. Should he attempt to rest, there will be someone to drag him back to his feet. Never will he die, and never will a reprieve be granted. Tell me, do you wish to seal his fate and selfishly send him to suffer in your place?”_

     Elyssa choked on the air she frantically took in, her breathing a chore in itself. The atmosphere in the cave was hot and stifling, crushing against her body and keeping her bent low to the ground. She didn’t dare take her eyes off the Daedric prince, for fear of what might happen if she moved a single inch in a direction he didn’t like. Thus, she remained exactly where she was, kneeling in a warm pool of sticky blood, which had forever ruined the bottom few inches of her dress. But, needless to say, with such a powerful creature—godlike to a fragile mortal such as herself—eyeing her with contempt, the sorry state of her patchy clothing was the least of her immediate concerns.

     “On your knees—a fitting place for you,” Molag Bal observed, his fiery blue gaze cutting over her briefly before detachedly surveying the carnage of bodies piled in the chamber. His tail swung from side to side, wickedly spiked, as he continued, tone betraying nothing, “You know not what upon you have intruded.”

     It was a ritual of some sort in this deity’s honor—of that she was certain. Beyond that, she neither knew nor cared to discover the purpose of such brutal slayings. The young Breton remained still and silent and waited for the creature to dictate the one-sided conversation at his leisure. Her thoughts deserted her as she simply waited for the verdict of her life, knowing that she couldn’t manage more than a couple steps before succumbing to his terrible will.

     But Molag Bal was undeterred by her silence, as if accustomed to mortals physically being incapable of speaking in his presence. He continued, with a hint of anger through his aloofness, “I should kill you where you kneel… but I seek a worthy champion.”

     The words slowly registered, and some of the bewilderment that bled through Elyssa’s petrified fear must have shown on her face—for the most fleeting of instants, she thought he was referring to her. She,  _his champion?_  It was almost laughable, but nobody laughed at the Lord of Brutality.

     “Hmph,” he snorted, slamming his tail on the ground. “My potential champion was slain moments ago. Just as well; I shall greet him and the rest of my worthless servants in Coldharbour momentarily, once I have properly dealt with you.”

     She finally turned her gaze away from his terrifying visage and squeezed her eyes shut so she didn’t have to see the horned mace clutched in his grip swing down upon her, to undoubtedly end her life in the most painful and brutal way imaginable. She clenched her fists in her dress and bowed her head, struggling to prepare herself for the agony that was sure to follow—and failing miserably. She fretted over the afterlife. Would her soul be torn from her body and taken to his realm of Coldharbour, to suffer for all of eternity at the hands of his minions? She prayed furiously to the Divines that he cared so little about her fate once she died.

     …And she continued praying, with the stench of blood and rotten flesh clogging her nostrils; the stone cold beneath her knees and sweat sliding down her skin under her dress in the oppressive heat. A few more silent, tense seconds passed before she cracked her eyes open.

     Molag Bal watched her with narrowed eyes, still standing exactly where he had originally materialized. His mace was hanging uselessly at his side, not drawn to end her life like he had threatened to do. He hadn’t moved a muscle in her direction.

     Elyssa didn’t dare to question him, though she did briefly wonder if it were more fortuitous or torturous that she was still breathing. She dared to cling to the hope that she might live to escape the Doomcrag, but the nausea bubbling within her sharply contradicted that. It was understood that nobody crossed a Daedric prince like Molag Bal and continued to draw breath—or, at very least, remained whole.

     “I have a task for you, little mortal,” he proposed abruptly, drawing a flinch from her. “Seek out for me a suitable champion, and I shall spare you.”

     The implications of his proposal hit the young woman especially hard. How could she ever willingly sacrifice another person to an eternity of servitude to this most brutal of masters in exchange for her life, to decide whose life meant less than hers? How was she to live with herself? And, most importantly, why was Molag Bal bargaining with someone so far beneath him? It was inconceivable, and she had no answers. Drawing in a quick breath, she answered shakily, “…I-I refuse. I will not deceive… deceive a poor soul into your servitude. You will have to k-kill—kill me.”

     His nostrils flared at her defiance, as weak as it sounded. “Assuredly, you will wish for the release of death once I have finished with you— _but it will not be granted!_  Eternal torment awaits you,  _lest you obey my command!_ ” he boomed, the deep baritone of his voice shaking Elyssa to her very core.

     “I do not worship you,” she insisted quietly, curling in on herself, hands clasped together. “I-I will not bow to you, Molag Bal!”

     “Fool—you bow to me now! You have yet to cease doing so!” he snapped, teeth bared dangerously. “It is clear that you recognize the depth of my power as that of your precious Divines. You can already feel my mace bearing down upon you, and you are utterly  _helpless_  to evade it.”

     “So kill me!” she cried, throwing her hands over her ears in a useless attempt to block out his taunts; the words would bleed right through the very cells of her skin. A Daedric prince could not be ignored. “End my life and my suffering!”

     Despite her continued insolence, he didn’t move to end her life, no matter how much she steeled herself for it again and again. As she lifted her head, perhaps to scream at him until he ended her torture of not knowing when he would strike, she stilled when she caught sight of something—the faint shimmer that danced subtly over his hulking form.

     The realization was startling; the Molag Bal standing before the young Breton was a projection. And, as a mere projection on Nirn, he couldn’t hurt her. It quickly became obvious that it was only because of the sheer slaughter that had taken place in the cave that he was able to skim the edge of Oblivion and appear before her as he did. It was intimidation—nothing more. To a point, she was safe.

     “You think me incapable of ending your pitiful life?” he accused. He took a step forward, and it wrenched a shriek from Elyssa, who scampered backward despite herself. “As penance for your meddling, you  _will_  obey me. I expect you to lead a promising champion to this cave before the dawning of Frostfall.”

     Elyssa glanced over her shoulder at the door, which hung ajar and beckoned her to hurry through it as fast as she could. Even though Molag Bal was a projection, his influence was not easily disregarded. Once she gathered her resolve, she fully intended to make her escape, and she would never look back at this horrible place.

     He seemed to sense her intentions, and it didn’t please him in the slightest. “Insolent insect! You dare to turn away from me?”

     At the sound of his voice, she finally mustered the courage to spring to her feet. On shaky legs, she backtracked through the maze of winding tunnels in a rush until she found her way out of the ruins. Away she ran, away from the feeling of death that hung like a veil over the Doomcrag and the very angry projection of a deity—away from the stench of corpses. Her dress was streaked a dark crimson, and it fluttered wildly behind her the faster she sprinted to escape Molag Bal’s overbearing presence, which seemed impossible to outrun.

     Her eyes were wide, her mouth hanging open as she panted fiercely. Her muscles burned the more she exerted herself, but she didn’t dare to slow her pace. She pushed herself harder than she ever had, splashing noisily through the sweeping waves and yanking her feet out of the hard suction of wet sand. In her clumsy haste and through the cover of darkness, she stubbed her toes on more than one hiding rock along the way, but she didn’t allow the pain to slow her down. Nothing mattered more than getting home so she might be able to recover from the gruesome experience.

 _If I am truly as lucky as Mother always claimed,_  she thought, her chest tight and mind dizzy with fear,  _please let Molag Bal think me unworthy of his time._

     More than once, she had to slow to a fast walk because she simply couldn’t replenish her lungs quickly enough to sustain her speed, and she became aware of how ridiculously  _hungry_  and  _thirsty_  and  _tired_  she was. She didn’t know whether to focus more on her bodily needs or her panic, but, as the sun began to rise in the distance and peek over the mountains, washing everything in a pale pink light, Elyssa reached the vicinity of her little village. She barely managed to lumber down the street to her house and hide away from her neighbors’ prying eyes behind the heavy door. The last thing she wanted to deal with was an endless barrage of questions when she had more pressing matters.

     Her body begged her to take care of the necessities; she needed to satisfy her hunger and thirst, and—though it had been forgotten in the crippling fear—she needed to treat her wound before things took a fatal turn. It was a shock to see how infected it had become in such a short amount of time.

     The fruit she had left out as a snack was strangely soft, as if it had been sitting out for longer than a single evening, but it hardly mattered to her. With trembling hands, she wolfed down two apples to their cores and downed several cups of stored river water before she felt that she could think straight enough to clean, medicate, and dress her injury.

     Despite what she had told the commander, Elyssa did keep several emergency potions for her family’s use in stock. However, knowing that what she had sold them did nothing to protect against the vampire cultists, it didn’t guilt her terribly that she had lied about their existence. It was a bittersweet feeling, sagging over her shoulders.

     Because her restoration staff was lost, she was unable to use any of her magicka on her injury and had to rely on her potion-making skills instead. Pouring the cool liquid over her upper arm and drinking the rest, she knew the healing process was going to be rough—but she would live through it.

     With the most important matters taken care of, she was finally able to turn her attention to the state of the house. There had been some potions brewing just before she left in a hurry, as she hadn’t been expecting to leave so suddenly. In her haste to catch up to the soldiers, she had left the potions unattended, and, when she realized they were ruined and completely unusable, it didn’t take her long to deduce that there was something off. Those particular potions had meant to brew for two days, so they shouldn’t have decayed.

     The answer seemed obvious—she must have been gone for several days, at the very least. But she could hardly believe it possible. The horrifying events flashed in a mere instant in front of her eyes, as if she had lived through all of it in a single nightmare. Doubting it happened was impossible; she needed only to be mindful of the painful twinge in her arm.

     Days in her life were a mere instant to that of a Daedric prince, whose lifespan had no beginning or end, and she feared the permanent consequences of having been in his presence. During the short conversation with him, she had ignored her need for food and water and had no concept of the passing of time, which both greatly outweighed the shame of having possibly voided herself in front of him. After all, it wasn’t something that could have been avoided—and it was difficult to tell, considering the number of foul things she had knelt in. How much time had truly passed while she had been in that cave with Molag Bal? It was a disconcerting thought, but it wasn’t something she had the capacity to focus on.

     For the next few days, sweating profusely and working through a miserable fever in bed—while her infection cleared away and her wound knit together in a shiny pink—she mercifully saw nothing of a Daedric nature, though she did receive a few visitors who were quickly reassured that she was alive. When she felt an inkling of strength return, she dragged herself to the fireplace long enough to burn her stained dress. With its immolation, the memories from the Doomcrag went with it, and it truly seemed to become nothing more than a passing, vivid nightmare. She was cautiously optimistic that her luck could be counted upon.

     Her fever broke just before her father was expected home, and she bathed herself, washing away the traces of sweat. Her wound was wrapped and hidden away from sight—she had no intention of sharing her harrowing journey with her father and worrying him—beneath her only other dress, thankfully one with longer, looser sleeves. She would fret over how to explain the disappearance of her favorite dress later.

     On the day of her father’s anticipated arrival, accounting for the days she had no knowledge of, she awoke early to collect some of the nearby mountain flowers and columbine and to prepare their rusty cauldrons for potion-brewing. While the cauldrons simmered and warmed the house, she took her place outside, awaiting any passersby.

     Shel stepped out of her own house with a tray of freshly baked bread while Elyssa was organizing her alchemy stall. The kindly Orc woman offered a smile, which the Breton returned as a force of habit. Though she wasn’t feeling particularly sunny, she didn’t want to alert anyone to her unease.

 _He’s just somewhat delayed,_  she told herself.  _Haggling with the merchants was a bit more trying than usual._  It was a small comfort to her mind to repeat it. Refusing to let her mind jump to dire conclusions, she closely watched the long stretch of dusty road that led in the direction of Northpoint. She expected to hear the distinctive clopping of hooves before she saw that familiar chocolate brown Sorrel poke its head over the hill, and she entertained herself with the possibilities of anything sweet her father could have brought back for her from Shornhelm.

     But one day tediously crawled into two days, and there was still no sign of him or even a messenger bearing news from him. As the sun set at the end of over two weeks since her father had left, she was forced to acknowledge that something unfortunate might have befallen him, either on his way there or back.

     The two other villagers, close-knit to each other and her family, visited her to express concern about his disappearance and offer their company and gifts. While their efforts were appreciated, and she endured it all with her head held high, it was a small thing and ultimately did little to soothe her. At this point, she either wanted him to come home—or she wanted to know what had happened. Nothing else would do.

     Elyssa’s wish came true when she laid down in bed that evening, at a loss of what to do, and, although knowing was what she wanted, it did not bring the closure she required to move on.

     “You continue to disobey me?”

     She jerked upward, clutching her blanket to her chest, and she twisted her head around to survey the contents of her little room. There was nothing amiss with her sparse furniture of a bookcase and writing desk with a mismatched chair, and she was alone. The candle was nearly burnt out, the tiny lingering flame swathing everything in heavy shadow. Still, the abrupt voice echoed unendingly in her ears, and she knew she hadn’t imagined it. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her wide eyes darted across her bedroom in search of anything out of place, to no avail.

     “Frostfall is nearly upon your world,” the bodiless voice continued, everywhere at once. “Need I remind you of your impending task?”

     It was undoubtedly the voice of her tormentor, the very entity that she had struggled to purge from her thoughts since her near-death deep beneath the Doomcrag. His terrible visage wasn’t present, and, for that, she was grateful. She didn’t know if she could look upon his wicked features without completely losing her composure, like she had the first time she saw him.

     Perhaps she wasn’t so lucky; Molag Bal clearly didn’t intend to let her disrespect go unpunished. It was a difficult thing to swallow, and she was very close to panicking. What was she supposed to do, having the attention of a Daedric prince? She couldn’t even begin to defend herself, and there was nobody she could turn to for help. Heroes willing to face such a powerful deity were extremely rare and often didn’t offer their services free of charge to a peasant such as herself; thus, she was on her own. Her death was assuredly only a matter of time.

     If there were one thing Elyssa could count fortunate due to her father’s disappearance, it was that he wasn’t there to feel Molag Bal’s presence pressing on his lungs and stealing the very breath from his chest. She had thought that and drawn a small amount of comfort from it… until the voice continued, colored with ire.

     “Do you…  _lack_  something from your life, pitiful worm?”

     The young Breton froze, her knuckles white due to how tightly she squeezed her blanket, as if it could shield her from his wrath. Her voice was small and timid when she finally broke the silence. “W-what?”

     “Your father has been absent, has he not?” he taunted meanly. “I wonder where he might be.”

     “…No,” she uttered, horrified, pressing a hand to her mouth. She curled it into a fist and bit into her knuckles.  _Don’t let it be true_ , she begged the Divines. Molag Bal was the God of Lies and Schemes. He wasn’t to be believed… right? But if that were true, she wouldn’t be feeling so sick. She believed him to be responsible; the timing couldn’t be a coincidence. “What—what have you done to him?!”

     “I have done nothing… yet. What happens to your father depends entirely upon your compliance. Need I provide an explanation for what I have in mind?”

     “Leave us in peace!” she pleaded, pushing her hands roughly through her tousled hair and gripping two handfuls of it. It was impossible to ignore the Daedric prince, but his words were terrible and only made her feel worse. If something had happened to her father because of her, she couldn’t bear it. It was unthinkable. “Leave us…”

     Molag Bal didn’t heed her reluctance to continue to listen to him. “He will forever toil in my foundry. An eternity of labor awaits him, if you desire it. Should he grow weary and stop, there will be the sting of a whip upon his back. Should he attempt to rest, there will be someone to drag him back to his feet. Never will he die, and never will a reprieve be granted. Tell me, do you wish to seal his fate and selfishly send him to suffer in your place?” Then he cruelly reminded her, “I am always in need of diligent little workers. I will benefit no matter what you inevitably choose.”

     How could she respond to that? Either she consented to lead a stranger to his or her doom, or she subjected her own father to an eternity in Coldharbour. The choice was obvious, but it wasn’t an easy one to make. She feared she would vomit if she said the words aloud, that she would agree to carry out his sinister demand.

     Elyssa just wanted to know where her father was. Was he safe? Was he suffering in any way?

     Or… was it all a trick?

     With Molag Bal, one couldn’t be sure, but she wasn’t willing to gamble with her father’s life to find out.

     “Bring to me a suitable champion before Frostfall,” he reminded her before mercifully leaving her alone.

     She hadn’t even noticed she was panting for air and that her bed clothing was soaked through with sweat. Whether that sweat was from the heat or fear, she didn’t know.  _Forgive me,_  she began in a prayer, clasping her hands together tightly in front of her bent head.  _I have bowed to the will of a Daedric prince._


	3. A Painful Decision is Reluctantly Made

> Her last thought was a desperate plea to the Eight— _Let me wake up tomorrow and discover this was all a bad dream._

_29th Day of Hearthfire_

     The night was restless for the troubled young Breton, as her mind was stuck in an endless loop and replaying the Daedric prince’s words again and again. Tossing and turning, she was unable to find the comfort she needed to drift away into slumber, and, as the sun began to rise and shine through her bedroom window, she managed only a couple hours of sleep before someone knocked loudly on her front door, startling her back awake. Groggily—and with a special kind of misery only sleeplessness and hopelessness combined could cause—she pulled herself from the warmth of her blanket and lurched her way downstairs and toward the source of the incessant noise.

     “‘Morning,” Shel greeted once the door swung open to admit her. She was smiling toothily and appearing entirely too cheerful for such an early morning. In her hands were a few berry-speckled muffins, the savory fragrance of which had Elyssa perking up slightly.

     “Good morning, Shel,” the young woman returned, gratefully accepting one of the offered pastries and allowing her friend to pass the threshold into the house. “Thank you for waking me up. I might’ve slept the entire day away had you not.”

     The Orc woman immediately frowned in sympathy at that. “Rough night, huh?”

     “Oh, that’s… an understatement,” Elyssa muttered before biting into her muffin. Feeling a chill seeping through her bed clothing, she made her way over to the fireplace to light it. It took a few strikes before she was able to catch the darkened logs with a spark due to her shivering, but the heat that eventually erupted from her efforts was exquisite and teased a contented sigh from her.

     “He’s a tough guy,” the older woman pointed out, kneeling down beside her to bask in the heat. At Elyssa’s questioning glance, she further elaborated, “Your father; he can take care of himself. I’m sure we’ll see him soon.”

     The Breton wasn’t sure how to answer that. The silence lulled between them for several long moments before she commented, “I’m heading to Northpoint today.”

     Shel inclined her head. “Well, maybe you’ll see him there—or even along the way.”

     “Yes, ah, that’s why I’m going. I’ll ask around, and… well, perhaps someone there will have seen him.” It was only a partial lie. If Molag Bal was deceiving her, it would be a pleasant surprise to find her father on his way back. But, if she were being completely truthful to herself, the trip to Northpoint was motivated by only a single, terrible reason, the likes of which could not pass her lips.

     Elyssa desperately wished she could confide in someone about her dilemma, but there was absolutely nothing anyone could do to help her—short of offering themselves to Molag Bal, which was out of the question. The knowledge that she was obeying the will of a Daedric prince would only cause despair for herself and those close to her, so it was a burden best shouldered on her own, even if her heavy heart didn’t agree with the sentiment.

     Conversation was scarce between them as they warmed up at the fire, and, after briefly updating her on the latest gossip— _“Did you hear that we’re getting visitors from Aldmeri soon? **That’ll**  be a sight.”_—Shel wished her safe travels and took her leave.

     Once alone, Elyssa began her preparations in the form of burrowing into the small pantry. She located the smoked cheese wheel from the last time her father visited Shornhelm and sliced off a small wedge, as well as chose a few pieces of bruised fruit. Strips of salted deer meat completed it, and all of the food was carefully wrapped and stored away in her leather pack. Meanwhile, as some river water was stored away in a small iron canteen, a pouch of coins and a book she had borrowed from Kinther were added to her pack. Though she didn’t intend to have a whole lot of leisure time during her search, she felt better having something readily available in order to take her mind away.

     Just as she was finally prepared to step outside, she was once again alerted to the fact that she was missing her maple staff. It didn’t have much sentimental value other than she had owned it for quite a number of years and was accustomed to the way it handled, but she still would have felt better with its weight on her back. But, if all went as planned, she would have the opportunity to retrace her steps and recover it from the depths of the Doomcrag—a thought that didn’t bring her much comfort.

     She departed from her little village and made her way east down the dusty road with her hand cupped over her eyes to shield them from the glare of the rising sun. It was early morning, which gave her plenty of time to travel, search, coerce, and possibly return successful well before nightfall, if she were optimistic.

 _They say Bretons are renowned for their diplomatic skills_ , she thought.  _Hopefully I’m not an exception._

     But how would she go about convincing someone to become  _Molag Bal’s_  champion? She couldn’t think of a scenario where proposing such a ridiculous thing would end in her favor. If she weren’t killed on the spot for treachery, she would be placed under a spotlight of heavy suspicion. Most Daedric princes were considered vile to the people of Daggerfall Covenant, and, moreover, Molag Bal had once attempted to destroy the world by melding it with his own plane of Oblivion—and very nearly succeeded. There was a special kind of hate lingering throughout Tamriel for the Prince of Enslavement.

     No, she could not speak her intentions aloud if she wished to save her father’s soul; she would have to lie and lead an unsuspecting person to the Doomcrag. Once she had some time to observe the person she was considering to learn what might entice him or her, she would craft her lie carefully. It was completely unsavory, but it would have to be done.

     An hour passed before she unshouldered and dug into her pack. She didn’t want to use up her supplies so early in the day, but she did grant herself a sip of water and a tiny crumble of the smoked cheddar as a small treat. The flavor on her tongue lightened her mood the very slightest bit; it was one of her favorites.

     After traversing the straight path along the coast of the ocean in a silent journey—during which she didn’t encounter a single person—Elyssa arrived at Northpoint by late afternoon, and she stopped just inside the gates to take in the frantic bustle of the crowds rushing to haggle with merchants. Squashed between two tall men who were heatedly conferring with the gate guards, she couldn’t help but to recall the times when she had accompanied her father on his travels just after her mother’s death.

     It had been such an adventure, and, as a tiny child looking up at the towering people of all shapes, sizes, and colors rushing by, it had been difficult to focus on any one thing. She hadn’t traveled outside of Northsalt Village in more than a couple years, but it was no less overwhelming now than it was all those years ago. However, it regretfully was far from exciting this time around.

     Raised voices pierced her ears from every direction as she solemnly weaved a narrow path through the masses, and she caught snippets of conversations along the way, most of which—anything of a political matter—was disregarded.

_“Can you believe it? There was an attempt on King Alard’s life! The news just came in today.”_

_“Oh, my—is he all right?”_

     Politics just didn’t interest her. Royalty, ambassadors, and other such leaders didn’t visit her home; there was simply no reason for it. And news only came if one of her neighbors visited Northpoint and happened to bring it back by word of mouth. However, there were things she, as a Daggerfall Covenant resident, could not ignore, and she had been well aware when the heavily contested throne of the Imperial City was finally secured after years and years of brutal war by the Aldmeri Dominion—or, more specifically, the Altmer.

     With the long-standing Three Banners War dispersed, there was little reason to continue to mentally divide themselves into a separate alliance, as traveling between regions was no longer heavily regulated. But the loss of the Ruby Throne was a massive blow, and there were few amongst the Bretons and Orcs who readily accepted their new leaders, from what Elyssa picked up on. She had never traveled far enough south to encounter the Redguards, so she couldn’t speak on their general opinion, though Kinther, who was Redguard, didn’t seem to care.

_“What about those disappearances? Do you think it’s related?”_

_“With our luck, if it’s not rebels, it’s the Daedra…”_

     The young Breton stopped at the Sloshing Tankard, as the sign helpfully informed her, and she knew it would be the best place to start her search. The soft notes of a bard strumming on her lute and the heady scent of incense greeted her as she pushed the door open. Blinking rapidly to adjust to the abrupt dimness, she let the door swing shut behind her.

     “Greetings,” a rather bored-looking man intoned from his place behind a nearby desk. “Are you here to rent a room for the night?”

     “Oh, I…” she trailed off with a frown. She hadn’t considered if she intended to stay the night in Northpoint. If she didn’t immediately finish what she had come there for, it seemed like an efficient idea, but she was hesitant to pay the price for it.

     “I just figured you were here for the fishing competition tomorrow. We have received many travelers since early this morning.”

     Elyssa winced slightly. A competition, one which drew contestants from all over the region, most assuredly meant raised prices on rooms. It was extremely bad timing on her part. “No, I’m not here for that, though I may need a room.”

     “That’s fine, but you may not want to wait. We are nearly at capacity.”

     “…Very well,” she acquiesced and grudgingly dug into her pack for her coin pouch. Once that business was taken care of, she was free to wander closer in the direction of the soothing voice of the bard, who was seated upon one of the tables and staring into the fireplace. Being near the warmth of the fire sounded very pleasant, and the young woman followed her lead, finding an empty place in a corner where she was free to watch the goings-on.

     Watching people wander by and converse with each other in that dim pub, she felt as if she were appraising chunks of meat rather than people, sizing up any assets that could be considered admirable to a Daedric prince, though she honestly had no idea what he was looking for. Her knowledge of the Lord of Domination was fairly limited since she never cared to study those wicked creatures who called themselves ‘gods.’ After all, how could she even have predicted this would happen and that the information would someday benefit her?

     Breaking out of her thoughts, Elyssa sipped from her iron canteen just as the door to the pub swung open roughly and hit the wall with a rattle on its rusty hinges. A rowdy group of Orcs spilled through the doorway in a cacophony of laughter, calling all attention upon themselves and drowning out the disgruntled bard.

     “ _Who knows no fear of beast or blade?_ ” one of the Orcs sang out with his fist thrust triumphantly in the air.

     “ _Undaunted, Undaunted!_ ” his fellows rang out encouragingly.

     A gruff-looking woman a few tables over from the young Breton groaned loudly and downed her drink, as if preparing to leave immediately.

     “ _Who knows no fear of Daedric planes?_ ”the same Orc continued with no less energy.

     “ _Undaunted, Undaunted!_ ” they answered again, tromping their way through the room toward the bartender, who was already busying himself with filling two lines of mugs with a rich golden ale.

     Elyssa eyed the boisterous group, her interest piqued by their blatant display of confidence. Were they truly unafraid of Daedric planes—and possibly the masters who ruled them? It seemed like a sign, but she was much too timid to approach such a large group of battle-hardened warriors. She tried to ignore them when they went into a few more stanzas of their song, followed by several rousing choruses of, “ _Undaunted, Undaunted! We are **Undaunted**!_ ” and it suddenly made sense why more than a few bar patrons had left in a hurry. Perhaps under different circumstances she would have hummed along quietly with them, but there wasn’t a single part of her that felt motivated to vocalize.

     Some time passed, and, with each mug downed, the group known as the ‘Undaunted’ became engaged in intense conversation, huddled over a few tables that had been pushed together. Their words were inaudible from where she sat.

 _They look strong_ , she thought, her eyes raking over the strangers’ impressive muscle mass and shiny armor and blades.  _Would any of them be the worthy champion Molag Bal is seeking?_

     As soon as it crossed her mind, she felt a niggling of guilt, knowing that whomever she finally chose would be nothing more than a servant to a cruel master, and she quickly averted her eyes from her targets. It was a painful process that was repeated over and over again, and time wore on with each person that was unknowingly spared from a fate worse than death.

     In the shadows, Elyssa watched reunions between brothers, trysts between forbidden lovers, and conversations between lonely drifters. She remained tucked away in the far corner of the pub—occasionally snacking on something from her pack to satiate her hunger—and appearing completely as part of the scenery, though with an intense concentration etched into her furrowed features. Attempting to stand and approach any of the people was difficult, and every time she mustered a little bit of confidence, her potential champion would disappear out the door, leaving her to search anew. Before she knew it, late night had fallen, and her eyelids were sagging over her eyes in exhaustion. By that time, the pub was almost empty except for a few exceptionally drunk patrons who were passed out over their tables.

     Knowing it was time to turn in, she heaved herself up and toward the staircase at the far end of the room, which took her upstairs to the room she had purchased for the night. It pained her to spend the coin on an overpriced room when she had a bed of her own a couple hours’ walking distance away, but she figured she could wake up earlier the next morning and begin her search once again, hopefully with better luck. It was impossible to ignore the impending deadline looming ahead of her—she didn’t have time to walk back and forth.

     As tired as she was, she didn’t bother to disrobe or even pull back the blanket; instead, she simply fell on top of it, passing out immediately. Though she had no trouble falling asleep, her night was plagued with terrible nightmares of disturbing imagery, pieces of which she could only briefly recall once morning had arrived all too soon: weary people hefting needlessly heavy pickaxes over their shoulders while sinister, horned creatures observed with cruel sneers; blood, sweat, and tears at the prospect of no way out; and a brutal taskmaster with his all-seeing, fiery blue gaze.

     Elyssa nibbled uneasily on a piece of dried meat from her pack while she combed her fingers through her hair in front of the mirror in her rented room. Unsure of whether her nightmares were the result of her troubled mind or because a certain Daedric prince was pointedly reminding her that Frostfall began in a mere day, she nonetheless wasted little time reorienting herself after all her business was taken care of and headed downstairs to the pub.

     Unfortunately, she found that her table from the previous night was taken, so she was forced to migrate to a different one in a more central location. In her new location, it was difficult to watch the other pub-goers without looking eccentric, having to swivel around and blatantly stare as she did. And, even more unfortunate, she hadn’t noticed a couple of angry Bretons getting into a rather heated argument, which escalated very quickly into violence—and she found herself in the middle of a brawl.

     Throwing herself toward the door and scrambling out with several other innocent bystanders who wished to escape getting caught in the crossfire, she breathed in the early morning air, which was growing ominously chillier as the winter approached. The streets were deserted compared to yesterday, and it took her a few moments to recall that there was a fishing competition taking place, which undoubtedly was the reason she was able to explore the merchant stalls without having to peek over anyone’s shoulders.

     Arms wrapped around herself, she slowly wandered through the streets of Northpoint, staring blankly at her feet. She would have loved to browse the multitude of wares and dream about having the money to buy to her heart’s content, but all of it reminded her of her missing father and how he used to bring _something_  home with him from his travels, even though money was tight. Caring and strong, he would have done anything for Elyssa, had their roles been reversed.

     As much as it frightened her, she knew she would be ready to offer herself in his place. If there were anything she could do—anything she could say—that would convince Molag Bal to let her father go, it would be done in an instant. She loved him and valued his life that much. So, if she were to fail in her search for a champion, was there anything she could trade for his safe return? It was a question she stressed over until the sun hung high in the sky and the mobs of people began to swarm the streets anew, signaling the end of the competition and her need to return to the pub.

     The lies came to her as she saw more faces than she had ever seen in her entire life. She could say she lost something in the Doomcrag and was in need of assistance. She could say there was rumor of treasure deep below—rare tomes, ancient jewelry, and endless deposits of ore—or that one will be blessed if they enter a certain room dotted with candles and lined with crimson tapestries.

     Somehow, she gathered the resolve to approach a few people with her crafted lies.

_“You lost somethin’, eh? In the Doomcrag, of all places? You know, I saw that very same staff in the market just a while ago. I bet you can find somethin’ even better there.”_

     Each time, she was a little less hopeful—

_“What do I look like, an adventurer? Look, I’m just here to fish. Not interested.”_

     —and a little less confident in herself.

_“ **Don’t bother me**. Can’t you see I’m trying to drink my own troubles away?”_

     And, in the end, she was unable to convince a single person that there was any sane reason for visiting the Doomcrag; the name alone made them edge away warily. Perhaps they could feel the oppressive aura of a vile Daedric prince radiating from it, all the way in Northpoint? Or perhaps she wasn’t blessed with the people skills that her race was known for? Whatever it was, it had her disheartened and more than a little panicked when she was forced to return home before the sun set and left her alone in the dark.

     After yet another exceptionally long journey across a dusty road that was becoming all too familiar to her, Elyssa managed to shut herself way inside her silent, cold house in Northsalt Village just as darkness fell upon the land of Rivenspire. She lit a fire and dropped to her knees in front of it, hugging herself tightly in her despair. Her deadline was tomorrow, and she had failed her father. The impact of it was enough to bring tears to her eyes, which slid down her cheeks as sobs tore themselves from her throat. She remained in front of the fire all night, crying until she was too exhausted to muster any more tears, and, with a pounding stress headache and no desire to move upstairs to her bed, she laid down and fell asleep right there on the fur rug.

     Her last thought was a desperate plea to the Eight— _Let me wake up tomorrow and discover this was all a bad dream._

     But, of course, Elyssa had no such luck.

     If she had any nightmares that night, she thankfully couldn’t remember them when she was suddenly roused the next morning by someone knocking politely on her door. She didn’t recognize the knocking as belonging to Shel, who was the one to most often visit her, so she quickly shook off her disorientation and stood to answer it, finding an unusual sight waiting on her doorstep.

     “Hello there,” the stranger greeted distractedly, glancing up from a curled piece of parchment in his grasp. His pointed ears peeked out from beneath his leather cap. “I’m Cocher, an archeologist from Grahtwood. I’m looking for some information on the nearby Ayleid structure known as the ‘Doomcrag.’ Would you happen to have, ah, any useful texts or—or perhaps a map of the ruins?”

     “No, I’m sorry,” she mumbled sleepily. “I don’t have anything like that.”

     “Drat. Well, no matter; I will ask around. I’m sorry for disturbing you.” With that, the Bosmer inclined his head before turning on his heel.

     It took all of five seconds, just as the door clicked shut, before Elyssa recognized the opportunity that had unexpectedly presented itself. Her heart began to race at the realization. Dare she do it? Could this be the one she finally condemned, this unaware elf who happened to be venturing into the clutches of a Daedric prince? He wasn’t burly, well-armed, or seemingly champion material from an outside glance, but she knew nothing about him and could not appropriately judge. It wasn’t something she had ever hoped for before, but she hoped this Cocher of Grahtwood was a Molag Bal worshiper so it would ease his torment.

     She had no choice; this was the one. She steeled herself for her decision, though her hands trembled when she ripped the door open once again. Her voice was light and unhurried when she called out, “Oh, just a moment, sir!” but she was a mess inside.  _I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me._

     If this was the Divines’ gift to her, a tangible answer to her troubles, she prayed it wasn’t too late to deliver the poor fool straight to Molag Bal. It was dangerous to hope, but it was impossible to contain it.


	4. An Unfinished Ritual is Fulfilled

> _“So helpless—and so speechless,”_ Molag Bal mocked. _“It is different when you cannot cling to your illusion of safety, is it not? Here I can touch you. Here I can dominate you… **hurt** you. Dare you turn your back on me now? I do not recommend it, but you are welcome to try.”_

_1st Day of Frostfall_

_By the Eight, he has no idea what is about to happen to him._

     This thought was prevalent in Elyssa’s mind as she traveled side-by-side with the exceptionally chatty elf and cast subtle sidelong glances at the blissful ignorance written all over his narrow, pointed face. With her hastily crafted excuse, that of the fact that she was more knowledgeable about the Doomcrag than any guidebook he could find—and despite his reluctance to accept her company—she found herself wrapping her arms around herself and staring moodily down at her feet with every torturous step back toward Molag Bal, whose presence was like the sourest of blights upon the region.

     With the sun warming their backs and aiding against the chill of the morning, the two wandered their way through the gently rolling waves that washed over their respective footwear and smoothed the golden sand. She found herself interjecting nothing but a few interested-sounding hums here and there while the excited Bosmer rambled about his latest travels and discoveries.

     “This land is quite interesting, but nothing compares to the splendor of the ancient graht-oak trees of Valenwood—that’s my home province, you see. That’s actually how I became interested in Ayleid ruins; there are many to be found there. Imagine my delight when I discovered the existence of this so-called ‘Doomcrag.’ Tell me, have you ever been to Grahtwood?”

     The Breton started slightly, breaking out of her daze and realizing that he had actually directed a question toward her. The words registered slowly, and she politely murmured, “Oh… Ah, I can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure, no.”

     “Truly? That is a pity,” Cocher mused, scratching at his lightly stubbled chin. “I fully intend to scour this province for any other archeological marvels before moving on to Skyrim. My, that is going to be an undertaking. I will need better clothing—”

     —It was difficult to focus; she could only miserably look out across the foamy ocean water, knowing that, if all went as planned, her companion would never again find the same amount of joy in his life. She didn’t want to hear his dreams for the future because it made her feel immeasurably guilty. It could have been a pleasant walk, spent enjoying the rare moments of beauty the harsh terrain offered during the dawning of a new day, but each step toward the Doomcrag was increasingly difficult and full of second-guessing.

 _What am I doing? I am a mere puppet to him. Will he even return my father?_  she fretted, chewing on her lower lip.  _Molag Bal owes me nothing—least of all his word._

     Farther along they traveled, passing the old Westwind Lighthouse—abandoned for years except for a few drunken squatters who needed a place to stay now and again. It stuck out of the ocean on its own tiny island, as if the ground had specifically formed around it. But the surroundings soon fell away into a dim, rocky cavern with low tide sloshing around their ankles, and the lighthouse disappeared from sight.

     “Vaewend Ede!” Cocher pointed out to the north when the path broke into shallow water and mossy undergrowth. The partially submerged ruins were small and crumbled, giving no indication that anything hid just below the surface, as was part of their charm. “The Ayleid ruins are abundant up here, and I intend to visit that one once I return. I will leave no stone unturned in my quest for knowledge.”

     Elyssa had lived in Rivenspire her whole life and hadn’t known what to call the history that surrounded her village. It seemed like a shame not to take a moment to admire the artfully decayed architecture, but delaying would only incite Molag Bal’s inevitable anger further—not that she dared to shove at the elf when he stopped farther along in their journey in order to admire what he identified as the Erokii Ruins, yet another of the collection that brought him to the region, he was quick to inform her. It was shortly before the hidden entrance that would open onto a path up the scraggly mountain to the Doomcrag, and the sun was now hanging high above them.

     “I’m marking my map. I don’t believe too many know about the existence of these ruins,” he informed her as he crouched down in the sand and once again reached for the hefty pack hanging over his shoulders. He was oblivious to his female companion’s troubled frown and anxious glance toward the mountains as he unrolled a parchment that was inked with Rivenspire’s geographic features.

     “We should be going,” Elyssa reasoned lightly, not wanting to create suspicion with her urgency, “if you wish to have enough time to fully explore the Doomcrag. It’s quite large.”

     “Nonsense. There’s plenty of time. And, should I be wrong, I have my camping gear with me.” He packed up his quill, ink, and parchment and stood, brushing sand from his knees and palms absentmindedly and peering off in the distance. “I… Oh—dare… dare it be true? Yes! I thought they had all been completely destroyed!”

 _What now?_  she wondered with dread but nonetheless followed the Bosmer when he took off in a sprint past their destination. It took her a few moments to catch up to him, but he abruptly stopped just short of a flat, cobbled surface with a stone-lined basin in the center. The stones were arranged in an intricate circular pattern and faintly scorched black with angular symbols, with dark moss filling in the cracks and stretching across. 

     Cocher smiled triumphantly at the sight of it, but Elyssa only wondered what the significance was. In fact, the structure only tickled at her senses in an altogether unpleasant way, raising the fine hairs on her skin with her unease. Thankfully, with him, she didn’t have to wait long to hear his thought process.

     “This is… Goodness, this is a remarkably untouched dolmen—possibly because of how tucked away it is,” he speculated. Despite his interest, he didn’t approach it for a better look. Instead, he placed his hands upon his hips and gave a little smirk. “He dared to think he could conquer Nirn, that foolish Molag Bal.”

     The young woman jolted violently at the sound of the Daedric prince’s name, but it went unnoticed. Her wide eyes turned toward him.

     “There certainly are more powerful Daedric princes than he,” Cocher continued lazily, as if he weren’t speaking ill of a vengeful deity. “What has it been—about six years now?”

     “Oh,” she simply said when she realized what he was referring to. Her heart was pounding in her chest. “I-I believe so. My parents and I sought refuge in Northpoint during those times because our village had become overrun with feral vampires. I had never seen one of these while they were active… or at all, really.”

     “Nor would you want to. Imagine the sky darkened with a swirling portal to Coldharbour, anchored here with spiked chains forged in the blackest pits by tormented slaves. Picture Daedric foot soldiers pouring out like ants from an agitated anthill, heralding Molag Bal’s most powerful lords and generals.”

     “…I would rather not.” At his gratuitous descriptions, a shiver was wrenched out of her.  _But_   _how does it compare to seeing Coldharbour’s master himself? Well… I suppose he’ll find out soon enough._

     “Yet he was defeated by a mere  _trinket_ ,” the elf scoffed. Then he paused before adding, “If the stories are to be believed, anyway. I was busy studying for my degree then and couldn’t be bothered by the whole mess.”

     Elyssa didn’t know what to say to that, so she wisely remained silent. He would have plenty of time to learn the extent of Molag Bal’s defeat from the prince himself. For now, she didn’t want to ever come near another one of his shrines again, and she mentally marked the location as one to avoid in the future. Was his presence so great in other regions? Maybe it was time to pack up and move far away, if she and her father found their way safely through the terrible ordeal.

     “We’ve dallied long enough,” Cocher said, abruptly turning his back on the dolmen when the resulting silence stretched on for too long. “Shall we?”

     At her nod, the two backtracked to the mountain entrance and finally began their ascent toward their destination, which was no less tense than the last time Elyssa had walked it. She noted that her companion seemed completely carefree and unconcerned by the jagged, mountainous walls swallowing them up—and that he didn’t seem to mind how the sky darkened ominously the slightest bit with each step they climbed toward the top where the ruins waited. There was no sign that he noticed how the ground beneath them seemed to tremble rhythmically, as if the mountain itself were alive. It was almost as if the elf had no reason to feel fear, and she puzzled over what the source of his confidence might have been.

     “Aren’t the carvings splendid?” he inquired idly as they stopped at the entryway to the Doomcrag. With a trail of his outstretched fingers, he admired the image of a tree, inlaid with emerald as it was, just as Elyssa had but could no longer. “This was a race that understood beauty. Imagine the kind of money they could earn for their designs if they were still living. Too often I encounter man and mer alike who desire mere  _replicas_  of their ancient work.”

     The Breton made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. As beautiful as it seemed, it housed a foul creature, and that wasn’t something that could be ignored. She watched as the door lifted for their passing, and, with a deep breath, she followed the eager Bosmer into its dark depths, feeling along the wall for balance until they reached the bottom step, where numerous torches lining the stone walls sprang to life at their approach.

     Their progress through the empty, spacious rooms was slow-going and interrupted more than once by the rumble of Elyssa’s empty stomach—“You should have eaten,” he would pointedly remind her again and again, much to her annoyance. They stopped at every single bend, inspecting scones, altars, and worn tomes alike. Cocher seemed to be meticulously searching for something in particular, but she hadn’t a clue what he hoped to find.

     More than once she tried to nudge him in the direction she needed him to go, but he was determined to take his own routes, despite her continued insistence that she knew the ruins very well and could help him find what he was looking for. It was extremely frustrating, but she knew she needed to use his distraction to her advantage when she recalled, with a sudden sense of nausea, the unfit state of the chamber she was leading him to. How could she have forgotten?

     While Cocher found himself once again enraptured by dusty carvings that were barely visible by the light of the torch suspended on the adjacent wall, Elyssa excused herself briefly, claiming she wished to scout ahead for anything worthwhile in order to aid in his excavation, with which he agreed wholeheartedly. Though she dreaded letting him out of her sight for an instant, as if he would vanish into thin air, she knew that it wouldn’t end pleasantly if she led him straight into a corpse-strewn Daedric shrine. She needed to come up with a plan somehow, but her mind was blank and stressed. She was dragging herself through the motions at this point, feeling as if she had lived several decades in the last week—but she wouldn’t let herself give up.

     Navigating her way back to Molag Bal’s chamber took more time than she anticipated, but she knew the instant she arrived. Initially, she firmly kept her eyes on the ceiling when she wandered into that horrible room, not wanting to see the soldiers broken, rotting, and littering the floor like discarded rag dolls, but she especially didn’t want to trip over one of them. With a long, quiet sigh, she steeled herself and dragged her gaze down over the far wall, tracing the weathered and cracked stone, to the dark dais and the eternally lit candles that encircled it. Farther still her eyes dropped to the floor beneath her—and, with a nasty, terrified jolt, realized that it was cleaned of all the bodies, with the only sign that anything had ever taken place being the dark stains and smears of long-since dried, crusty blood.

     Elyssa fell away, stifling a cry and stumbling back clumsily, before she spun around, her eyes searching for any sign of the deceased she knew once laid still. Never before had she seen the dead animated and never wished to, and the thought that they could be lurking in the shadows and waiting to grab her was like something out of the worst of her nightmares. She couldn’t bear it and yearned to run far away—preferably into her father’s safe arms. But she simply couldn’t.

 _Should I warn him?_  was a passing thought. There was little chance of Cocher believing her if she refused to explain her reasoning—what was she, a diviner, foretelling in the stars that the deceased would walk on this day?—but a dead champion was a useless one. It was a cold outlook, but it couldn’t happen any other way. It was Cocher’s life for her father’s.

     “Your fear is amusing,” came that awful baritone that likened to the threatening rumble within a sleek predator’s throat. As amused as Molag Bal claimed to be, there wasn’t a trace of it in his voice. When the young Breton spun around to face his projection, he dryly informed her, “The fallen serve a purpose elsewhere. Your concerns are misplaced; the only thing you should fear here is my wrath.”

     “I do not fear your wrath, for it is undeserving,” she insisted quietly. It was a lie, and they both knew it.

     “Oh?” His tone was light, indulging, but his features were twisted with displeasure. “I was not aware you are a time traveler, little mortal.”

     “I have brought you a champion,” she insisted and gestured toward the dark entryway behind her.

     “Yes…  _I know_.” There was a hard edge to his words. It was obvious he didn’t appreciate her disregard of his omnipotence. “Little escapes my notice, such as how your deadline has already passed. Yet here you are, determined to ignore this fact.”

     “Even if the deadline has passed, I still present you with what you requested of me. Is that not worth  _anything_  at all?” Elyssa couldn’t suppress her bitterness, resenting him for forcing her to sacrifice a living being. Be it an elf or not, she didn’t live her life with the desire to bring harm to others. She wasn’t even entirely sure her father, if he were to discover what she was doing for his sake, would approve of her despicable actions, but she just couldn’t let go of him. The loss of her mother had been too great; she didn’t know if she could bear losing him, too. What did she have in this world without him? She wasn’t ready to face it alone. “Take my offering, if you must. I have done my part. Now is the time for you to uphold yours.”

     “ _I do not want him as my champion!_ ” Molag Bal barked irately, startling her back a few steps with his sudden ferocity. His voice echoed due to the sheer volume. “He worships that wretch,  _Boethiah_ , and will never be worthy of my most sacred boon! I would rather see him tortured  **twice** to undeath than honor him as such. You insult me with your careless actions, assuming I would accept just any one mortal into this role.”

     Unsure of why it mattered whom Cocher worshiped but knowing it was a waste of time to ask for his reasoning, she cowered slightly and reconsidered her admittedly disrespectful approach. The Daedric prince’s anger was palpable, pulsing dangerously through the air, and she didn’t want to upset him further. “Then… then will you accept his soul as payment? It is a fair trade, is it not? One soul for another?”

     He snorted derisively. “His soul is not yours to offer. While you have been conversing with me, your thieving companion has already taken a number of artifacts from these ruins and escaped, as was his intention from the start.”

     She was utterly shocked, but it was not the realization that Cocher was a deceptive thief which caused it. That meant nothing to her, as numb as she was; she simply didn’t have the capacity to care about it at that moment. Rather, it was the jarring impact of the fact that she had nothing left to bargain with, except her very own soul. “What can I do to persuade you to let my father go? There must be something…  _anything!_ ”

     Molag Bal considered her question with a moment of tense silence, his gaze piercing. But whatever he was going to say, if anything at all, was never voiced; his attention wandered from her pitiful form to beyond the entryway of the chamber.

     “ _My soul!_  I give myself to you, Molag Bal, to do with as you please!” Elyssa cried, growing panicked by his apparent disinterest. If her offer wasn’t attractive enough, then that would be the end of it. Was she to the point of groveling? Yes, she was, and she didn’t acknowledge her feeling of shame when she dropped to the ground or when the tip of her nose touched the ground in her submissive pose. “Please, what would you have me do?”

     “You consider not what your offer entails,” he intoned. Then, with a hint of malice, he continued, “I have neither the need nor the inclination to negotiate with you. The terms were simple, and you failed me. Now,  **begone** , mortal. Remove yourself from my presence and consider yourself fortunate.”

     “No, please!” she gasped, crawling forward blindly and reaching out—for what, she wasn’t sure; she grasped only at air. Moving purely on desperation, her only concern was to somehow save her father’s soul. Her ears were ringing with a strange metallic rattle, but she paid it no mind as she squeezed her eyes shut against a fresh onslaught of tears. Choking on her words—as she could hardly believe it had to come to this—she pleaded, “Take me, Molag Bal! I give myself over to you! I offer myself in his place... Master!”

     As the words left her lips, something darted through the air with a low whistle, grazing her ear and taking several strands of hair as it did. The pain didn’t register immediately, and Elyssa whipped her head upward, startled to see an arrow imbed itself in the far wall with a sharp  _clang!_ Even more startling, Molag Bal was no longer perched over his dais; he had vanished, leaving her to foolishly degrade herself to an empty room.

     “Foul cultist!  **Scum**!” a voice rang out in disgust, accompanied with the frantic rattle of metal she had steadily been ignoring. “Cease your summoning right this instant!”

     Elyssa whipped around to face the new arrivals and instinctively threw her hands up to defend herself, though they would do nothing against another arrow. Through the cracks of her spread fingers, she watched as several rough-looking Orcs stepped into the chamber with their weapons drawn. It took a moment, but she recognized them—the rowdy group from the Northpoint tavern calling themselves ‘Undaunted.’ She was amazed they had come this far out into the mountains. Had they been called in to investigate the Doomcrag specifically? No matter the reason, their presence was almost an insult; where had they been when all those soldiers lost their lives? It was simply too little, too late.

     Obviously, they had heard her pleas to Molag Bal, and she knew that all of it was extremely incriminating when out of context. Unsure of how to explain what she had been doing without sounding like a cultist, she could only remain kneeling there, petrified. She didn’t dare to move and prompt the fierce Orcs into attacking her. They seemed taken aback by her harmless appearance—what was a young, defenseless woman doing deep in the Doomcrag by herself? The effort to explain it was great; too much had happened in such a short period of time. Moreover, she herself sometimes questioned it.

     “Explain yourself immediately!” the leader of the group ordered. “What is your wicked purpose here?”

     “I…” she trailed off, at a loss of what to say. She could have told them she was there to save her father’s soul, but helping a Daedric prince in any way was a grave misdeed to those who were righteous and decent. In offering her soul, she was knowingly strengthening Molag Bal and aiding in his plans—simultaneously a selfless and selfish act. After all, who was to say her father was worthy of the exchange, except for his daughter and closest friends? She fell silent, for the right words would not come to her. The truth was that she was at their mercy.

     “Many have disappeared in this region, and we believed it to be the work of a Daedric lord,” he informed her coldly. “But we could hardly believe it to be Molag Bal  _himself_. Do you not realize what he attempted to do to our world—what he very nearly succeeded in doing?”

     “Yes, I do,” she admitted quietly. “But—”

     “—You’re not a vampire, nor do you seem thralled by one!” he pointed out heatedly, cutting across her. “You disrespect your fellows’ efforts to banish the evil prince and prevent his return!”

     “Save your breath, Yatur,” another Orc chimed in, clenching his fist over the hilt of his blade and gritting his teeth. “Let us finish this swiftly, as we were hired to do. This is a job, not a moral lesson. If she wishes to betray us all for a Daedric prince, then that is her choice. But it is our job to put a stop to it.”

     “I’m not betraying anyone!” she protested, but they didn’t seem to hear her.

     The Orc leader considered the other Undaunted’s words, his dark gaze narrowing in on the terrified young woman contemplatively. Finally, he gave a short nod and drew his bow, prompting the rest of his group to do the same with their own blades. “…You’re right. Let us end it.”

     Before Elyssa could react more than rearing backward a few inches, and before the one called Yatur had even finished speaking, one of them charged forward, swiping his blade through the air and slicing across her exposed palm, which was still held up protectively in front of her face.

     With a shrill cry, she fell backward, smacking her head soundly and slapping her palm upon the dais—as arrows shot past her fallen form and narrowly missed her. As her vision spotted with bursts of light from the impact of her skull upon the stone, her wounded hand throbbed in agony, sending waves of prickling heat crawling up the length of her arm. Regaining her equilibrium, a horrified gasp escaped her as she barely managed to scramble backward out of the way of the bloodied blade when it came crashing down between her ankles.

     Elyssa was strangely growing weaker and weaker, as if her very life essence was being drawn from her, and she collapsed with a long groan, curling up on the dais. Everything hurt; she couldn’t pinpoint the source of her sudden pain. She vaguely wondered if what she was experiencing was how dying felt, and she let out a dry sob, knowing she wasn’t ready for it. _I’m sorry, Father. I tried…_

     Her attacker let out a snarl, ripping his blade back with a nasty sound as it dragged across the stone. There was a grunt as he lifted it and heaved it high above, preparing to swing it down upon her defenseless form. Each sound he made was loud, rivaled only by the sound of the young Breton’s pulse roaring desperately in her ears, and she clearly pictured his every move even without opening her eyes. She could already feel the blade bearing down on her, tearing through her body and ending her life, and it was the most terrifying sensation.

     The air picked up all around her, quickly growing in intensity until it whipped violently, catching against her clothing and hair. The throbbing in her hand spilled through her body, and she could feel her veins pulsing as blood raced through them. A chill crawled up her spine at the same time as an icy hand closed around her heart. Her lungs flooded with liquid fire, and she was drowning in it. Her vision was fading, and meaningless images danced before her eyes in blurry shapes and colors—

     —and then it was over, and she was able to gulp in sweet breaths of air. She quivered, sore all over, as if her very cells had caught fire and slowly fizzled out to a dull simmer. Baffled by what had just happened to her, she was nonetheless grateful to be alive.

     As she recovered from the trauma and sat up, she beheld the fate of the Undaunted, who had been tossed around and impaled with horned spikes, as if they were morbid pin cushions. The Orcs were wheezing shallowly in their final moments, grasping at the objects pinning them and attempting to remove them, to no avail. Their punctured bodies poured dark blood over the floor and added to what was already there.

     Forcing her eyes away from them, not wanting to watch them die, she noticed something that filled her with even more dread the longer she stared. The sight of her own blood speckling the dais like an offering was an ominous one—the feeling of a Daedric prince shadowing her was more so.

     “ _This changes nothing_.” The deep voice was like a passing breeze tugging at her hair and tickling her injured ear, but the icy tone cut like a blade—a testament to his fury. He was gone as quickly as he came.

     Somehow, she found the last of her strength to push herself to her feet and mindlessly stumble away from the carnage. Making her way out of the accursed ruins that became more and more like a tomb to her with each visit, Elyssa was feeling the draining effects similar to the last time she had been in Molag Bal’s presence, and she idly wondered how much time had passed. Her muscles were aching from the lengthy traveling she had been doing. Her stomach felt like it was filled with insects, crawling restlessly within her, and her hunger and thirst made her steps uneven and needlessly heavy. She feared that she would pass out before she arrived home, but was there even anything left to fear in this world, considering all that had happened to her?

     The one upside was that she had tripped over her once-lost restoration staff on the way out, and it was cradled in her arms like a lifeline. But it was nowhere near enough to bring any light back into her life. Where there had once been a splash of a myriad of brilliant colors across her vision when she looked at the world around her, there was only a dull monochrome of hopelessness clouding her vision. Her future was uncertain—and that of her father—and her life was forfeit with the wrath of Molag Bal hovering over her. What did she have to look forward to any longer? No matter where she traveled, no matter who she sought protection with, he would find her and do away with her.

     Unfortunately, with her eyelids heavy over her eyes and dizziness affecting her awareness, she didn’t make it more than a few miles away from the Doomcrag before she stumbled toward a patch of moss and dropped into it, reaching blissful unconsciousness in a matter of seconds.

     Blackness consumed her, but she was attuned to more than a few of her senses. She could feel something solid beneath her and a flickering heat crawling over her spread body; she could taste the air, stale and sour; and she could hear the delicate turning of pages as a book was flipped through. She could sense all of these things, but she was unable to see any of it. She didn’t even know if her eyes were opened or closed. Slowly, she drifted in and out of that state between awareness and nothingness.

     An indefinite amount of time passed—did time even matter in a place like this? As her vision finally spotted with blurry shapes, she became aware of a few things: that the pages she heard were no longer turning and there was something straddling her from above and crushing her body. She didn’t need her vision to know that where she laid was a grim place to be, but, blinking the haze from her eyes, she finally saw  _him_.

     The Daedric Prince of Domination and Brutality was pinning her to the cold stone beneath them, her small wrists crushed beneath his massive, clawed hands. He was heavy atop her, dwarfing her body in comparison—all she could see was him as he towered over her and impassively examined her terrified form. She could feel the unusual, hard texture of his flesh pressed against her own skin.

     Seeing him at a distance as a projection from Oblivion was one thing; having him rendering her completely immobile and at his mercy was something else entirely. Yet she could not scream because her breath was caught painfully in her chest due to his pressing down on it, more so when she finally brought her gaze up from the jutting skeletal outline of his sternum, across his pectorals and neck, doggedly avoiding his sinister teeth, all the way up to his eyes.

     “So  _helpless_ —and so speechless,” Molag Bal mocked. “It is different when you cannot cling to your illusion of safety, is it not? Here I can touch you. Here I can dominate you…  **hurt**  you. Dare you turn your back on me now? I do not recommend it, but you are welcome to try.”

     “How…” The word came out as more of a panicked croak. She swiped her tongue over her lips to wet them, but her mouth was completely dry. She couldn’t fathom how she had ended up beneath Molag Bal, when the last thing she remembered was falling asleep in a patch of moss in Rivenspire. Remaining calm was a struggle; her voice wavered with audible fear despite her best efforts. “…How did I get here?”

     In response, he dragged her wrists together above her head and wrapped a single hand around them in a punishing grip that would most assuredly leave a smattering of nasty bruises. Leaning down until all she could see was the blue of his cold gaze, he hissed, “Recall your desperate pleas and your offering of blood upon my dais. With the completion of the ritual my servants left in stasis, you became my champion, which means you belong to me. Your dim-witted thoughts, your pointless dreams, your worthless life—it is  _all mine_.”

     The insults washed over her, icy and startling like the chill of his slow breaths on her neck. She struggled fruitlessly against him, the circulation in her hands cut off from the severity of his grip. Various parts of her body were becoming numb as a result of his cold flesh and weight. She squeezed her eyes shut to block out his terrible visage, but it was burned on the inside of her eyelids.

     “When you dream, I will drag your soul to Coldharbour so that we may reacquaint,” he elaborated in a drawl, unfazed by her continued struggles, “and it will be graciously returned to you upon waking.”

     “I never wanted this,” she whimpered. To be marked as a champion was the ultimate stigma. If there were a more ruthless deity to have fallen into servitude to, Elyssa couldn’t think of one; Molag Bal was infamous for a great number of terrible things, the likes of which she didn’t want to think about. She would not be responsible for causing any of it in his name.

     “I share this sentiment. Do you really think you are capable of being my champion— **you** , who so often finds herself on her knees instead of firmly on her feet?  _Useless filth_.” One of his jagged nails dragged down the front of her dress, effortlessly slicing the thread holding several buttons in place, though he didn’t seem interested in peeling the fabric away. “I wanted nothing more to do with you, but you have forced my notice with your incessant bumbling.”

     Elyssa rapidly blinked away hot tears, but they swam in front of her vision with abandon. She quickly gave up on them and let them flow, and they colored her voice thickly. “A-and… what of my father?”

     “Ah, yes.  _Him_. What a lucky mortal he is.” Molag Bal purposefully left it at that, drawing away from her in disinterest. “I bid you farewell until we continue this conversation on the morrow. Until then, you will pray only to me and learn to shun your Divines, for they no longer have anything to offer the likes of you.”

     Once his presence fully left her, Elyssa took in a deep, quivering breath into her now unimpeded lungs—and awoke with a start, drawing her knees protectively to her chest. Taking in the harsh glare of the sun, she couldn’t will herself to lay back down, afraid of what might happen if she fell asleep once again. She feared for her mind and for her soul, but mostly she feared for her sanity, knowing her very thoughts were no longer private.

_Can it possibly get any worse?_

     She had a feeling that it definitely could.


	5. A Displeased Master Delivers Punishment

> _“Despite your transgressions, you may yet prove yourself devout,”_ he continued lowly, directly behind her. _"In exchange for your offering, I shall graciously grant to you my forgiveness. Am I not a fair master?”_
> 
> (This chapter contains an **explicit rape** scene.)

_3rd Day of Frostfall_

     When Elyssa was able to shake off her most recent encounter with Molag Bal and reorient herself, it was to several extremely uncomfortable sensations assaulting her at once—that of damp clothing sticking to her skin, the throb of her bladder demanding release, and a dry mouth begging for something to wet it. Moreover, the wound on her palm was burning and in need of prompt healing. Shaking away the disorientation clouding her mind like a fog, she groped around instinctively for her fallen restoration staff and chanced a glance down at her injury in the meanwhile, wondering if it had gotten infected. Her piercing scream could have been heard from miles away—when she realized with a horrified jolt that the nasty itching she felt was due to the black mass of tiny insects crawling on her palm.

     Impulse took over, and she swatted wildly at the bugs, caring little about the sting resonating from each slap, until she had knocked all of them off. Her wound had reopened in her panic and was bubbling hotly with blood, but she couldn’t feel it in her dwindling burst of adrenaline, which had urged her to leap to her feet and put distance between herself and the nest she had unfortunately passed out next to. Her chest was heaving, her eyes wide, and she protectively cradled her palm close to her breast.

     Only once she had calmed down slightly did she feel that she could focus enough to treat herself. Though she was still haunted by her rude awakening, she gathered the magicka she could feel within her and channeled it through the thin core of her staff. Smearing her palm across the smooth sanded maple and wincing as she did, she centered her tentative regenerative abilities on it. To her delight, the cut slowly knit itself together after a few seconds, becoming nothing more than a dark pink blemish amongst the lines of her hand.

     With that taken care of, she took a cursory glance around in the unlikely event someone was wandering by, but, when there wasn’t another person for as far as she could see, she was free to squat down behind a bush and relieve herself with a contented sigh. Pressure alleviated, she clutched her stomach when it gave a hungry twinge and dragged herself home, hoping that she would never have to make the tedious trip to the Doomcrag again.

     Along the way, she couldn’t help but to stress about her father’s unknown fate,  _her_  unknown fate, and her new status hanging over her like a death sentence. Knowing that the instant she closed her eyes she would be in the Daedric Prince of Brutality’s hands again—and that there was nothing she could do to avoid it—was beyond terrifying. How long did she have until he decided he wanted to collect on her soul and replace her? Or, rather, how long could she bring herself to live as his servant, knowing that every bit of resistance would be met with torment?

     But she couldn’t give up, not yet—not until her father was released from Molag Bal. If he were still alive, and she wanted to believe that he was, she would not give in until he was safe or, if the worst indeed had happened, at peace and far away from Coldharbour.

     As she crouched to chew on a handful of wild jazbay grapes nestled amongst the foliage, she vowed to herself that she would endure. She  _had_  to. She would not let herself become a Daedra’s puppet. With this firmly in mind, she swiftly finished her snack, stood, and quickened her steps.

     When Elyssa reached the edge of her little village, ready to disappear inside of her home and recover from her journey, she stopped short in light of her newest obstacle. Warily taking in the sight of strangely dressed newcomers—all mer, by the look of it—blocking her way and chatting quietly amongst themselves, she instead took her place next to her neighbors, who were huddled some distance away. Once she was in earshot, she whispered, “What is happening? Who are they?”

     “Altmer,” Kinther helpfully said, a frown marring his features. “They arrived only moments ago and asked for us to gather. Beyond that, we are not yet sure.”

     “Only five years since the war ended, and they’re already moving in like they own us,” Shel muttered under her breath, audible only to Kinther and Elyssa, who shot sidelong glances at her. The Orc woman was clutching a broomstick in her hands with a tight-knuckled grip and staring intently at the Altmer representatives. Her posture was undeniably hostile.

     “Where have you been, Elyssa?” the Redguard asked as a change in subject, giving her a quick once-over. “I feel as if I haven’t seen you in days.”

     “I’ve just been out,” she deflected lightly, fishing for something reasonable to say. She averted her eyes to her feet in an attempt to hide her turmoil. “It helps to take a walk and think—to clear my mind, considering… well…”

     “You don’t have to say.” He nodded solemnly at her. “I hope we hear news of his delay soon. Until then, dwelling on it often does more harm than help. You have the right idea.”

     Elyssa only nodded, squeezing a handful of her dress. She didn’t want to talk about it. Although it was only a half-truth—she was still thinking of her father, after all—being forced to lie made her feel worse about her situation, and she didn’t want to give Molag Bal so much power over her life. For now, she thought it was best to ignore it and try to regain some semblance of her previous normality, though the presence of Aldmeri was anything but reassuring. As much as she appreciated her friends’ concern, she wished they wouldn’t pry.

     “Is this everyone?” one of the male Altmer asked, gesturing toward them. His collar was high, and his robe was a decorative sweep. All in all, he appeared regal and important, not that it meant anything within the confines of what was once Daggerfall Covenant. Without waiting for a response, he continued in a clipped tone that invited no argument, “Worry not about our presence in your lands. We are here merely for diplomatic business. As you know, your king is recovering from a recent assassination attempt, and we have offered our assistance in uncovering the responsible party. If you know nothing about it, then you have nothing to worry about. Now, let us discuss lodgings…”

     Elyssa wasn’t sure why they had any reason to care about an assassination attempt on King Alard, and she knew her neighbors felt similarly. Why were they really here? The three Northsalt Village inhabitants were suspicious and distrustful, but, ultimately, as only poor merchants, they had no choice but to hospitably meet the needs of their unwanted guests, who appeared well-armed.

     Thankfully, there were enough empty houses—abandoned years ago by a few families who had been claimed by feral vampires and, later, sickness—so none of them were forced to adjust to sharing their homes, which would have most assuredly caused a dispute, seeing as Shel was already so close to spitting venom at the regally attired mer.

     Elyssa was more than ready to shut away the stresses of the world behind her door and not emerge for several days, but she had to comply with the investigation first. Away from the others, she was questioned about seemingly innocent things—“How long have you lived here?” they asked her. “Have there been any unusual passersby in the last couple weeks that you’ve noticed?”

     She gave her answers as dutifully as she could, but she stumbled more than once when the questions turned toward her most recent activities, not having the proper time to fabricate reasonable lies. In truth, she had nothing to do with the assassination attempt on King Alard, but, despite this self-assurance, she couldn’t walk away from the interrogation feeling completely at ease, especially when they flippantly informed her that her answers would be compared against those of her fellow townsfolk. After all, Shel and Kinther admitted to noticing her disappearance for days at a time; it would undoubtedly look suspicious if they knew nothing about where she went.

     But she simply didn’t have the ability to fret over it, not when exhaustion was creeping up on her. In Molag Bal’s presence, she had severely, though unwittingly, neglected her body, and it was beginning to wear on her. So, once she was free to return home, at long last, she drank her fill of water and filled her belly with food. But she didn’t retire to her room, no matter how much she longed to, recalling what she had promised to herself.

     As a result of her newfound resolve to feign to her master that she was unfazed, the next day and a half was particularly trying. Elyssa refused to sleep and face the deity who was expecting her, if the small explosions of pain in her mind were any indication, and it grated at her shaky mental state. She wanted to collapse on a pile of warm furs and succumb, but the knowledge of what awaited her was more than enough to give her the drive to remain awake for just a little longer.

     Distracting from it was difficult, considering the soothing sounds of the ocean just outside her house and the comforting warmth radiating from the fire flickering in the fireplace. Shut away inside her house, she worked through several of her books and snacked on morsels of food from the storage pantry, while she overheard the sounds of the Altmer moving around outside and speaking to one another.

     However, in the end, as her eyelids dropped lower and lower against her will, she was unable to fight away the sleep and finally dragged herself upstairs to her room as evening descended. If she were going to face Molag Bal, she wanted it to be in the comfort of her bed. Nestled under her blanket, she was asleep within seconds when her head landed on her soft pillow. Everything faded to black as she drifted into sweet, blissful unconsciousness, and the transition to Coldharbour was essentially seamless.

     Shrouded within darkness, Elyssa knew the instant that she entered Oblivion and shivered in the sudden cold air as it gently passed over her. Her eyes cracked open, and blurriness swam before her half-lidded gaze. Blinking rapidly, her vision slowly cleared and granted her the view of a few lit candelabras and books laying haphazardly about the space. There were no discernible walls around her, only endless abyss interrupted by a stone bookcase overflowing with well-worn tomes here and there. As she attempted to move, she came to the startling and horrible realization that she was fully nude.

     Quickly lifting her body to a kneeling position with her feet tucked beneath her, she wrapped her arms around her breasts and squeezed her thighs together. It did little to protect her modesty, especially when the sensation of being observed tickled unpleasantly at the back of her neck, and she turned her head to the side to further assess her sinister surroundings, which consisted of stone spikes like jagged teeth curling up around the cracked platform she was kneeling upon. In her encroaching panic, she barely noticed that the tiny flames of the candelabras laid out before her had flickered and extinguished with a soft hiss—before igniting again in an intense, fiery blue.

     “My little  _champion_ ,” her cruel tormentor mocked from somewhere just beyond her line of sight.

     As if a hand had burst from the depths of her terror and seized her heart in a vice grip, she drowned in a potent sense of horror. Her skin crawled restlessly at the proximity of the terrible god and his intentions—her lack of clothing said plenty about what those might be. Audibly sucking in cold air that stung her lungs, she grew more and more frightened by how it might feel to be taken by such a monster, who would only revel in her pain and agony. Part of her wondered if she would survive the ordeal. Her mind did nothing to soothe her body, and the effects of her inner turmoil were painfully obvious to the Daedric prince.

     “You are trembling,” Molag Bal drawled, giving nothing away as to his mood, “as you should be. Your oblations have been far from satisfactory.”

     There was a rumble against the stone below her, followed by an incessant scraping, and Elyssa’s hair stood on end as she felt him approach her. A slight whimper escaped her, and she contemplated the consequences of throwing herself off the edge of the platform and into the abyss. However, before she could move an inch in any direction, she was shoved to the ground by an unseen force—the very breath taken from her from the sharp impact.

     Elyssa immediately attempted to right herself, but both of her wrists were seized and jerked back down, held firmly in place by iron clasps that had materialized from nothingness. Similar clasps snapped shut around her ankles, and, to her sickened mortification, her legs were ripped open indecently wide. The bindings were unyielding, keeping her positioned lewdly in a kneel, and no amount of yanking at them provided freedom; they cut into her flesh.

     “Despite your transgressions, you may yet prove yourself devout,” he continued lowly, directly behind her. “In exchange for your offering, I shall graciously grant to you my forgiveness. Am I not a fair master?”

     “No, you—you…  _No_ , I make no such offering to—” Her whispered protests were stifled by her own small, surprised yelp. The feeling of coarse cloth dragging across her lower back as Molag Bal’s shadow fell over her brought a lurch to her frazzled stomach, and she was unable to complete her thought. A full-body shudder took hold of her, and gathering tears spilled down her cheeks. “Don’t touch me!”

     Molag Bal didn’t heed her words and instead knelt behind her, sending another tremble through the stone platform under his weight. His touch was strange and unfamiliar as his massive hands dragged across her sides, tracing the subtle ridges of her rib cage with a deceptive tenderness, all the way down to her hips, which he abruptly gripped and squeezed roughly. His nails dug into her malleable skin, and the more she wrenched away, the harder he stabbed them into her—until she could feel warm beads of blood welling and dripping in tickling trails down her outer thighs.

     Her head fell forward, and her hair spilled over her tear-stained face as she laid it on the ground. She had never been so exposed to anyone, and she burned in helpless shame under his stare. Tortured by imagining what he would do to her, she barely noticed when one of his hands drifted away from its place on her hip.

     Although it was inevitable, she was not at all prepared for the rustle of cloth followed swiftly by the first jab against her untouched entrance. Her cry was still echoing through Coldharbour as a long, thick appendage slid across her slit, catching slightly with small pinpricks of pain that made her flinch, as if being caressed with thorns. It pressed against her more insistently with each pass, dipping inside of her the slightest bit.

     “It has been too long since last I enjoyed a virgin,” Molag Bal informed her, something dark and hungry coloring his tone. He pushed forward against her tiny hole once again, wrenching a pained cry from her lips as the bulbous tip parted her. His sheer girth stretched her wide open to accommodate him.

     Elyssa was unsure exactly how to reason with a Daedric prince. She fished desperately for the words to convince the King of Rape to spare her, but she knew that it was in vain. He wouldn’t listen to her, and her breath would undoubtedly be wasted. Instead, she yanked on her bindings with determination anew, and the sharp tang of blood scented the air.

     Molag Bal offered no warning as he suddenly jerked forward and plunged his way deep inside of her, tearing into her resisting body, encouraged by the sound of her strangled scream. His hands came to a rest next to her own clenched fists as he gripped the stone for leverage. His hard, muscled form draped over her body, completely dwarfing it beneath him. He was impossibly thick and hot inside her body, the little barbs adorning his cock scratching along her frantically clenching walls with every cruel jab against her womb. He pounded into her smaller body, battering it with his intensity in a rhythmic slapping.

     “Stop!” she begged in a shrill wail, temporarily blinded by the overload of pain assaulting her senses—from the burn of her thighs being forced apart, to the raw scratch of her throat as she screamed at the top of her lungs, at the very least. “Stop,  **stop**! It— _it hurts so much!_ ”

     If not for the iron clasps keeping her in place for Molag Bal’s heinous use, she wouldn’t have had the strength to be able to keep herself upright. Her knees were scraping against the ground, wet with her own blood, as she was jostled forward with every rough impact of his pelvis. The biting pain from the numerous cuts across her body from the deity’s claws, as well as those from the sinister horns protruding from his hulking form, was hardly noticed in comparison to the raw, burning agony between her thighs as she was torn open for him.

     “Yes,” he murmured—not a hint of his exertion in his voice the longer he violated her—over Elyssa’s uncontrollable sobbing, “this will do. Your offering pleases me, mortal.”

     Molag Bal pulled back, sliding out the slightest bit as he did and giving her a brief reprieve—during which she collapsed in an exhausted heap and took a few heaving breaths—and teased a finger between the plump cheeks of her reddened backside. Pressing against the hole there, he considered its resistance to his entry. The tight ring of muscle was completely unyielding when he attempted to sink inside.

     At the sting from the Daedric prince’s lewd exploration, Elyssa jolted violently, and she squirmed forward to unsuccessfully escape from his probing finger. Her terror and humiliation began anew. “Not there!  _By the Eight_ —”

     The Lord of Domination cut her off with a forceful thrust, sheathing deep inside of her so she could feel every inch of him slide into place, and he curled a controlling hand around her neck. Capturing a fistful of her hair with his other hand, the ruthless deity yanked her head back and leaned forward so she could see the way his cold gaze narrowed down at her from his towering position.

     “ _Blasphemy_ ,” he breathed, brutally grinding his pelvis against her. “Mind your words, lest you incite my anger. Does it hurt now? I encourage you to imagine how it might feel if I invoked any amount of my strength.  **I**  am your master—and no one else. For salvation, you pray only to me. Let us begin now.”

     Elyssa bit down on her lower lip as her spine bent inward under his hands and body, locking her into an unnatural position. Her scalp throbbed, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. There were too many sensations to focus on, more so when Molag Bal continued a leisurely pace in and out of her battered body, reawakening the rawness of her torn vaginal walls. She could hardly utter another sound, as hoarse as she was from the screaming. All she could manage was a tortured little moan.  _Please let it end,_  she begged to no one, daring not to name the Divines in her prayer. With her cruel master privy to her every thought, she knew it would result in even more torment at his hands.

     “Beg your master, and it will end,” he intoned, hearing her plea. With a snap of his hips, he buried himself inside of her once again with an obscene, wet squelching noise. He released her hair and neck, letting her head slump forward, and he grasped her darkly bruised hips once again. “ _Beg me_.”

     “Please stop,” the Breton croaked weakly, eyes squeezed shut. She worked her throat, struggling to voice the submissive words. “Have mercy on me, M-Master…”

     “What do you ask of me?” he prompted, his voice tinged with dark amusement. “What do you ask that I stop, my little champion?”

     “I… I wish for this to end,” she pleaded. “Spare me…”

     “Oh, how you utterly  _burn_  with shame and humiliation.” Following the words with an undeniably pleased rumble in his chest, his cock throbbed within her. After a moment, he stilled, his fingers flexing on her skin and muscles tensing against her. Once the moment passed, his voice was strangely light when he informed her, “Very well. You have sufficiently pleased me. For now.”

     Elyssa flushed and squirmed in disgust in the aftermath of the Daedric prince’s completion. Several more silent moments passed before Molag Bal finally pulled away from her, leaving her body exposed to the cold air once again. The scent of her blood and sweat was heavy in the air, and a hot stickiness dripped from her.

     When the iron clasps dissipated from around her wrists and ankles, she curled up into a ball, her joints aching from being stretched apart for such a lengthy time. With a timid hand, she reached down and gingerly swiped her fingers between her thighs, and she brought them to the level of her eyes, taking in the gruesome sight of bright crimson blood. It sickened her, but there was nothing about the encounter that hadn’t sickened her.

     “Begone,” he ordered, his tone abruptly cold. He had disappeared into the abyss surrounding the floating platform, but his words carried easily on the stale wind. “When I have need of you, I will approach you once again. Perhaps in the future you will consider heeding my summons.”

     At the dismissal, Elyssa faded out of Coldharbour, as if it had all been nothing more than a nightmare. But when she rudely awoke to the ghostly sensations of Molag Bal’s hands lingering on her skin—and feeling like she hadn’t slept properly in a week—it seemed to be anything but, though a thorough examination of her own body revealed that the harm that had been inflicted upon her had not carried into the physical realm.

     Suddenly, her earlier thoughts of resisting his influence seemed a century gone. If this was what awaited her, she wasn’t at all confident she had the mental and emotional fortitude to endure. All it took was one evening of experiencing how it felt to have a Daedric prince inside of her, and she was already doubting her resolve.

     The frightened Breton dared a tiny prayer to any Aedra that cared to listen.  _Give me the strength to persevere in the face of this adversity. Lead my soul safely from his grasp and grant me the reprieve I seek. I… I am not a servant of evil._

     It was a small comfort to trick herself into believing there was someone looking out for her, that her life wasn’t something that could be thrown away so easily. And if she felt any twinge in her mind that her master disapproved of her ‘traitorous’ thoughts, it was steadily ignored.


	6. An Abused Servant Endures Suspicion

> Their distant forms became specks and soon disappeared completely behind a hill, and she finally felt, with a small pit of despair in her breast, that she was truly alone.

_4th Day of Frostfall_

_Nothing but cold and darkness—colder and darker than the deepest part of the ocean and twice as unforgiving, filled with creatures so evil that slaughterfish seemed domesticated in comparison. There was no hope to be found here. Every terrible occupant desired to watch her bleed and writhe. She wasn’t safe even with her loathsome title; she would never find safety within the confines of Coldharbour, Molag Bal’s champion or otherwise._

     “…why they’re really here.”

_Squashed against jagged stone, her body ripped and tore under his, her bones creaking and straining under the pressure of surviving his malicious onslaught. Blood squelched and poured out wetly from around Molag Bal’s cock as he drove it deep inside of her despite her screams and pleas, which were steadily ignored as if she had been merely whispering. Her voice did not reach him; he was too focused on his own pleasure, which was amplified in the swelling crescendo of her agony. He might have uttered a throaty moan in his ecstasy, but it was lost in her own shrill verbalizations._

     “Foul  _Altmer_. I don’t…”

_Even the tiniest of twitches of his muscles attested to his godlike strength and how he could crush her with the faintest effort whenever he wished. She was pinned and completely at his mercy—something he wasn’t known for. Utterly trapped and with death being nothing more than the sealing of her fate, she was his marionette, dancing on the strings of his absolute will for an eternity. She was born to be his plaything, to be needlessly broken and replaced. Her actions were executed in the hopes of pleasing him. She belonged to him, in every possible sense._

     “…listening?”

_“You mortals are remarkably resilient for something so tiny and pathetic.” That raspy voice teased at her ears, simultaneously invoking varying degrees of panic and forcing her to not miss a single cruel syllable, for they were divine and not to be wasted. His teeth clicked together, and his lipless mouth wrapped around each word, enjoying the torment they invoked, though he did not smile to show it. “I will enjoy testing your will.”_

     “Elyssa?”

     Elyssa flinched as she abruptly came back into focus with her surroundings, and, once she regained her bearings and was confident that her face had been wiped of ill emotion, she met the concerned stares of her houseguests. If they noticed the dark bags under her eyes or the haunted quality of her stare, they politely didn’t point it out—or, rather, they attributed it to the unknown whereabouts of her last surviving family member.

     She wasn’t eager to correct them that, while she was indeed feeling uneasy about her father’s continued disappearance, it was the itch of the touch of a Daedra skittering incessantly over her senses that was first and foremost occupying her mind and recreating her terror the night before. And she suspected Molag Bal was responsible due to the submissive, reverent tone of the daydreams; his expectations for her were palpable. She barely even noticed that she had guests, having answered the door in a sort of trance. “I’m sorry. My mind is… elsewhere… at the moment. What was it that you were saying?”

     Shel shook her head and stood to stoke the fire before responding, “It wasn’t important. I am just ranting out loud.”

     “What did they ask you, Elyssa?” Kinther inquired, steepling his fingers and peering owlishly over them at her. He was sitting in one of her few comfortable chairs, the one her father had always preferred because the cushion atop it was permanently imprinted with the shape of his buttocks.

     “Oh—well, they asked about my history in this village and any suspicious people or activity I’ve seen recently,” she recounted, leaning forward minutely in her chair toward the fire, which was roaring back to life under Shel’s watchful ministrations. A soothing wave of warmth washed over her, and she closed her eyes and basked in it. Nowadays, she reveled in any small amount of pleasure she could find. “Mainly general questions such as that. I didn’t have much to say, so I can’t imagine it will assist much. What did they ask you?”

     “Most of the questions were the same, I imagine. But they also asked me about the daily activities of the both of you.” He inclined his head at her, then the Orc woman, who bobbed her head in agreement and returned to her own seat.

     Eyes snapping open, Elyssa sat up straighter and smoothed the worried crease from her forehead. She kept her voice as light as possible when she prompted, “So… what did you tell them about me?”

     “I told them that you leave the village often and for several days at a time, but I couldn’t give them any more information than that.” He shot her an apologetic frown. “I gave away as little as possible so that it wouldn’t seem suspicious if we all had different answers.”

     The Breton sighed softly and scrubbed at her eyes with her balled-up fists. She was struggling to care about the problem at hand; she hadn’t even wanted to drag herself out of bed. But it had the potential to become disastrous and needed her attention. “Kinther, they’re investigating an  _assassination attempt_.”

     “Come, now. There is simply no way you could travel all the way to Shornhelm and back in such a short amount of time, and I’m sure even they realize that. There is no reason to be worried,” Shel interjected before the Redguard could open his mouth to defend himself.

     “Are you certain there is no way  _at all?_ ” Elyssa fidgeted in her seat, her mind unwittingly straying back to her latest memory of Coldharbour.  _Now is not the time_ , she mentally chastised herself, sickened in remembrance. “Maybe not for… for a regular man, Orc, or elf. But with the help of the Daedra? Disappearing from one place and reappearing somewhere completely different in a matter of seconds is nothing for them.”

     “Accomplished mages can do that, as well,” Kinther interjected at the same time that Shel argued heatedly, “But you have  _nothing_  to do with the Daedra!”

     “I am not an accomplished mage by any means.” Briefly considering the Orc’s words that had been tangled with the Redguard’s, she chose not to comment any further on her dealings with Daedric entities and instead deflected, “I am just pointing out that it looks suspicious when neither of you have an answer for what I do for days at a time. We cannot pretend to be anything less than a close-knit community, especially when the both of you are in my house right now.”

     “Just tell the truth about where you’ve been—searching for your father, right?” Without waiting for confirmation, Shel continued, “Logic says you didn’t have anything to do with the assassination attempt. And there’s no way a sweet girl like you is affiliated with the Daedra. But, if they try anything, we’ll be ready to defend you in any way we can.”

     The young Breton warily watched as Shel stood and approached her, and she couldn’t help but to shy away from the other woman’s touch as she reached out to gently grasp her arm in what was intended to be a comforting gesture. With the horrors of her brutal rape still fresh in her mind, she just didn’t want to be touched by anyone, and she wished she could find a way to properly communicate the sentiment, especially when Shel gave a delicate but hurt frown and pulled away without comment. Elyssa felt terrible to have caused it.

     “Nothing will happen,” Kinther affirmed, as if sensing something was amiss, though he didn’t follow his neighbor’s example and attempt to lay a comforting hand on her. “You’re innocent.”

     “I’m innocent,” she echoed with a weak smile. The smile faded slightly when her thoughts sharply corrected her,  _I am a Daedric prince’s champion._  “…Nothing will happen.”

     As she finished speaking, there was a series of prim knocks on the door. They didn’t have to open it—though they reluctantly did when the knocking persisted in volume the longer they delayed—to know who was waiting impatiently on the other side.

     “Oh, excellent, you’re all in one place,” the important-looking Altmer from yesterday spoke, though the three Northsalt Village inhabitants knew he hadn’t let them out of his sight, so to speak, for an instant and already knew this. He made to step inside the dimly lit home, but, with a cursory glance dripping with self-importance, he thought better of it and remained on the doorstep, the light filtering in behind him and illuminating the outer edges of his straight-backed form. “Then I won’t have to repeat myself. I do  _despise_  having to repeat myself.”

     “What is it?” Shel demanded, her tone dripping with venom. She was clutching the armrests of her chair, as if holding herself back.

     “We are nearly complete with our investigation. Once we finish our last round of questioning, we will be ready to depart from your village,” he elaborated, unfazed by her overt hostility.

     “What  _more_  could you have to ask us?”

     “We mean only to expand on what has already been asked. We have found a few inconsistencies and holes in your collective answers that we wish to clear up.” He clicked his tongue. “I need only the girl for now.”

     “I’ll go,” Elyssa told her friends when it seemed they wished to protest. She offered a tentative smile to project the confidence she didn’t feel within as she stepped out of her house and was greeted by the glare of sunlight. Before the door swung shut behind her, she assured the two of them, “Don’t worry. This shouldn’t take long.”

     With that, she was led a short distance away, across the village square, to where the guards were packing things away inside the numerous pouches hanging from the sides of their horses’ saddles. They scarcely glanced up at her presence as they diligently worked, but her interrogators from the last session were standing cross-armed and stern-faced, awaiting her arrival. Almost immediately, she was informed, “We need to ask you some more questions about your activities in the past couple weeks. Let us begin.”

     They fired question after question at the speechless Breton, whose mind was whirling to find a foothold. What could she say? The truth was completely out of the question because it would only make things worse for her, but continuing to remain completely silent was suspicious, as well. She ultimately decided to settle on vague half-truths. “Yes, I… Yes, I’ve been leaving my village recently. You see, my father has vanished on a trip to Shornhelm. He takes these trips every couple months. I was hoping to find—”

     “—What sort of trips are these?”

     “Well, he’s a merchant, and—”

     “—What does he sell?”

     “If you would just let me finish a sentence,” she stressed each syllable, irritated by the constant interruptions, “you would find the answer.”

     “Do not attempt to sidetrack us with your prattle.”

     “I am doing  _nothing_  of the sort!” She released a long, suffering sigh and blew a strand of hair away from her face. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that Shel and Kinther ignored that they weren’t needed and were briskly walking toward her. She took a small amount of comfort in their concern, even if there was little they could realistically do against armed guards. Her heart warmed when they took protective stances around her.

     “ _Damnation_ ,” the regal mer growled, waving in dismissal to the interrogators. “Fine, I will be blunt if you all insist on being difficult. Now, at what point were you going to tell us about your trips to the Doomcrag?”

     Elyssa faltered. “I—Well, I…”

     “If she went anywhere, she was looking for her father, as you have been told,” Kinther said. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

     “Yes… so you claim. We have a reliable source who informed us that she is intimately familiar with the Doomcrag, where a great number of people have recently disappeared—and where a certain, let’s say, demonic aura seemed to be emanating. Moreover, she was spotted leaving it mere days ago. For what, I wonder?” He raised himself up on his toes and glared down his nose at them. “Certainly not searching for her father, as you all seem to think.”

     “What  _exactly_ are you suggesting?!” Shel demanded. “That she has something to do with the disappearances? She would  **never**!”

     “That is not what our source claims. He thinks her to be highly capable of—”

     “— _Damn your ‘source’ to the bowels of Oblivion!_ ”

     “Do you mean Cocher?” Elyssa interrupted before Shel, who appeared ready to draw blood, could interject anything further. She faintly recalled what Molag Bal had told her about Cocher’s apparent thievery in the Doomcrag, though she wasn’t certain how credible it really was. She decided to test her luck with the only defense she had in her arsenal. “Just how is  _a thief_  a reliable source, pray tell? He stole from the people of Rivenspire! He took a number of relics—”

     “—That do not belong to you!” the elf snapped irately, startling everyone present with his abrupt ferocity. Then he cleared his throat, quickly feigned nonchalance, and busied himself with smoothing the creases of his robes. Coolly, he continued, “And I do believe you have helpfully confirmed your presence within the Doomcrag—not that it was needed. Thief or not, Cocher is indeed the name of our source, and he was very reliable with his information.”

     Elyssa shrank at that, her heated words and bravado stolen from her in the realization of what she had just admitted in her haste and desperation. She felt her neighbors’ shocked stares on her but didn’t turn to them and try to defend herself. She was irreversibly backed into a corner.

     “We have been conducting this investigation out of the goodness of our hearts. We think a few dusty relics lying forgotten in a tomb are inconsequential payment in the grand scheme of things,” the Altmer quipped in the resulting silence. “Nonetheless, we do not need to explain ourselves to you.”

     “Regardless of whether she has been within the Doomcrag recently or not, she had nothing to do with the assassination attempt on the king,” Kinther insisted, spreading his hands in agitation. “How many times must it be said? Shornhelm is  _at least_  a week’s journey on horse one-way, and she does not own a horse.”

     “As per King Alard’s request, we are keeping our eyes open for any manner of suspicious activity,” he corrected tersely. “Who’s to say there is zero relation between what has been happening at the Doomcrag and the attempt on your king’s life? I hardly think it prudent not to follow up on this.”

     “What are you going to do with me?” Elyssa’s voice was small, unsure; she hadn’t been expecting, with everything that happened so far, this to be piled precariously on top.

     “With our business concluded here in Northsalt Village, so you will accompany us through various towns on the way to Shornhelm, where you will be placed under suspicion until all of the culprits are found,” he informed her.

     “And… and if the culprits are never found?”

     “Then your fate rests in the hands of your king or whomever he places in authority over the matter, for our job is nearly finished.” With that, the head Altmer turned on his heel and placed his hands on his hips, clearly done with her. Dryly, he addressed one of his fellow elves, “Solinar, if you would, please. I would like to reach Northpoint  **before**  sundown.”

     “Yes, sir.” The one known as Solinar bowed and motioned for two other heavily armored elves, who had iron shackles in their hands, to approach Elyssa, who didn’t make a move to resist.

     “Leave her be!” Shel ordered, stepping in front of her friend to block her from sight of the elves. She held out her hands, fingers spread, and scowled. “Bastards! I’m not going to stand by and watch you falsely imprison her!”

     Despite her words, she and Kinther—moments later when he also defensively took his place in front of Elyssa—were quickly restrained and shoved out of the way, and the Breton was draped in chains that seemed far too excessive and weighed her down significantly.

     Solinar ushered her forward with a tug on her restraints and, though she squirmed away from him, lifted her onto the back of a tawny horse, where he soon joined her, taking the lead position and the reins. Once everyone was settled in their saddles, they positioned themselves side-by-side in two neat lines.

     Without looking back, the regal Altmer inquired, “Have you anything to say before we depart?”

     Elyssa miserably lifted her eyes to the back of his head. She considered the question for only a moment. “Yes. What am I to call you?”

     Turning his head, he quirked his brow at her, seemingly pondering whether to answer or not. Finally, he responded, “Kelkemmeriil,” before turning away and encouraging his dark steed into a fast trot, which was quickly matched by everyone else’s horses.

     Swaying with the sudden lurch, Elyssa clamped her thighs down around the horse’s thick flank to keep her balance and sighed inaudibly. She turned her head to cast a final, longing look at her home and her friends, who were still standing in the same places, motionless. She wished she could say she would be back to Northsalt Village as soon as the whole mess was somehow cleared up, but there simply was no guarantee of that. She thought of her sentimental belongings she was leaving behind, her carefully rationed food, and her few cherished books. She thought of her restoration staff she had lost and found—now lost again. She thought of her bed and her father’s favorite chair and hoped Shel and Kinther wouldn’t let it all go to waste.

     Their distant forms became specks and soon disappeared completely behind a hill, and she finally felt, with a small pit of despair in her breast, that she was truly alone.

     Northpoint proved to be only a pit stop for them to stock up on anything that needed to be replenished for the journey, such as dry food and water, because she learned that the elves had first conducted their investigation in the bustling port city before moving on to tiny Northsalt Village. The process took less than an hour before they took off once again to clear as much distance as they could before the sun set. When night fell, they found a pleasant alcove tucked away and made camp, taking turns to watch Elyssa through the night, though an escape attempt was far from being on her mind. Her rest was fitful and plagued with worry, and she woke up nearly every hour.

     For the next few days, they enjoyed decent riding weather—until they approached the next town on the way, at which point the clouds unexpectedly and ominously darkened overhead and began to drizzle over their heads.

     When they arrived in Fell’s Run, they were absolutely soaked to the bone from the sudden downpour that had crept upon them. Shivering slightly, and with the horses housed safely at the stables, they rushed to the inn. When they entered the warm building, they found a significant amount of the villagers—who glanced up at their entrance as they noisily crowded inside—gathered in the attached pub.

     “Turn your eyes away! This is a matter regarding the assassination attempt on your king, not a spectacle for your evening entertainment!” Kelkemmeriil called sternly, caring little about the puddle that was slowly forming beneath him on the wooden floor. He appeared very much like a drowned skeever, and, as his knit brow attested to, he clearly wasn’t enjoying the attention while his appearance was less than pristine.

     The gazes of the townsfolk lingered on them, narrowed with equal parts distrust and disgust when they took in the sight of the iron shackles dangling off the little Breton, but the subtle threat did as it was intended. If they had trouble believing that the young woman was a threat worthy of such crude bindings, they didn’t do anything about it. Thus, they ultimately returned their attention to their own beverages and conversations, leaving Elyssa with her elven entourage, who went about renting rooms for the night and making dinner plans.

     As she was led upstairs by a couple of guards, she could make out the hysterical note in Kelkemmeriil’s voice as he exclaimed for all to hear, “No jasmine tea? Surely you  _jest!_ ”

     She was thankful to receive her own room, though she knew the door was being closely monitored. She wasn’t able to undress completely due to the inconvenient placement of her chains, and, much to her embarrassment, there was nothing she could do about the mud she left on the bed sheets due to her soiled dress.

     The sun set and rose, and interrogations were expedited through the morning, though it seemed to be that the elves were eager to leave Rivenspire after dropping off their burden in the form of Elyssa. Now that they had someone to place the blame on, it appeared as if they didn’t have the same motivation for exerting effort as they did when in Northsalt Village, which only strengthened the young Breton’s suspicion.

     “I would rather be stripped bare and forced to share furs with a brutish Nord than to remain in this hovel for another evening,” the head Altmer muttered over a late lunch while he sipped from what was essentially just a cup of hot water.

     All of them, including Elyssa—who struggled to eat her portion of bread and soup with shackled hands—were gathered together at a table on the second floor of the inn. The elves, for the most part, chatted quietly amongst themselves, but the conversation had little to do with the investigation and more with their plans for when they returned to lush Auridon.

     What were they planning? She watched them through cool eyes, wondering about their intentions. Clearly, it seemed Cocher was associated with them in some way, and he had, in fact, stolen from the Doomcrag. What exactly he had stolen, however, remained a mystery. As much as she knew it wasn’t her concern as she was being led to an unknown fate, she couldn’t help but to speculate, especially to pass the time while she had nothing to occupy herself with except for memorizing the details of the walls.

     The reality of her situation became decidedly grim when, after lunch, they departed from Fell’s Run—a sleepy and peaceful town she wouldn’t have minded visiting under different circumstances—and she remained the only prisoner in their possession. Needless to say, she didn’t have the capacity to care about their possible hidden agenda when she still had no tangible way to prove her innocence.

     For days afterward she traveled with them, but, surprisingly, when night came and they stopped to camp, her dreams didn’t involve Molag Bal, which was a mercy. Instead, she caught flashes of various places in Coldharbour, where the Daedra—with long whips in their hands and hungry looks in their dead eyes—held souls captive and inflicted every imaginable torment, sexual or psychological, upon them. And more than once she thought she imagined a glimmering city amidst it all, bathed in light and bustling with life, which seemed unfathomable under the Lord of Domination’s jurisdiction.

     Whenever it seemed like she was getting a closer look at the strangely beautiful city, her dreams were always rudely cut off early in the morning by a steel toe to the ribs—intended to be a gentle nudging but ruined by a very hard and sharp object—and she wasn’t sure which was the lesser of the two evils. Being in Coldharbour as an impassive, drifting bystander was a different experience completely.

     After nearly a week, the trip was wearing on everybody, but it seemed that Elyssa was the only one dreading its end. As she tiredly dragged herself off the ground with a clatter of chains and a quiet, pained groan under her breath when the pain of her raw wrists was reawakened, she overheard that they were very close to Shornhelm; a day of travel, provided they kept a steadfast pace with minimal distractions, would see them there. Weary of traveling and of each other—and verbally fantasizing about the comforts awaiting them back home—the Altmer were quick to rise and pack up the tents and supplies. Within minutes, the horses were bounding down the path as the elves chatted merrily to each other.

     As they approached the outskirts of the town of Hoarfrost Downs, they were completely unprepared for the ambush.


	7. A Terrible Situation Becomes Worse

> _“ **Erotic** is the suffering of mortals. To force them to kneel in understanding of their eternal inferiority pleasures me, and to forever extinguish the light of hope within their souls completes me."_
> 
> (This chapter contains an **explicit rape** scene.)

_10th Day of Frostfall_

_…What happened?_ The groggy thought was the first to puncture the fog encompassing Elyssa’s mind.

     A groan escaped her lips, and her eyes rolled sluggishly beneath her closed lids. In her encroaching consciousness, a wicked throbbing seared across the back of her head. Cracking her eyes open the slightest bit, she was greeted with a mess of color and light swimming before her, and she vaguely became aware of the fact that she was being dragged by her wrists, which were raw and still adorned with the ever-present iron shackles. She let out a pained moan and squeezed her eyes shut once again when the blinding sunlight became too much for her sensitive eyes to handle.

     Piecing together what had happened to fill the gap in her memory was slow-going, considering the dull roar of a headache that held her firmly in its grip. It came to her only in small bits, which was all she could process. Her awareness jumped from the stones she was currently being dragged across to the sticky mess of blood at the back of her head, from the guttural and unfamiliar laugh somewhere to her right to the multitude of bug bites she had acquired that demanded scratching. But she couldn’t will her muscles to move to make sense of any of it. She didn’t know where or with whom she was. Was she in danger? The answers just wouldn’t come to her.

     The back of her skull gave a particularly nasty throb, and her weak grasp of consciousness withered away from her. She must have drifted into a dream. How else could she have thought to hear the comforting, low tone of her father’s voice murmuring incomprehensible nothings to her, similar to when she had become pathetically ill earlier in the year—seemingly eras ago when things were monotonous and simple? The words themselves weren’t important; the thought of being nestled in her bed, her father watching over her fevered form, was all that mattered. The illusion of safety was all that mattered. She clung to it for as long as she could, but, no matter how she wished it, the dream wouldn’t last forever.

     As she regretfully stirred, her ears perked up at the distinctive hiss of steam laced with distant screaming that was becoming far too familiar to her. Coupled with the way she seemed slightly out of breath no matter how large the gulp of air she took into her lungs—as if the air was thin and unsuited for her use—she had no doubt of where she was; she simply didn’t want to open her eyes and begin the experience of whatever new terror was awaiting her. But the memory of what happened the last time she ignored Molag Bal floated up and bobbed pointedly on the surface of her mind, and it was enough to rouse her from her curled-up position.

     Blue and black—depression and darkness—were the dominant hues in Coldharbour. The only light came from dancing blue flames, which were well-fed on the putrid corpses stuffed within furnaces, and the ethereal glow of the azure plasm that mimicked the ebb and flow of water. With towering stone mountains and crude iron encompassing the entire plane, one did not have to be bound to feel imprisoned; one simply had to gasp for a breath that wouldn’t fully catch and look up to the sky, stifling and alight with dark fire beneath a sea of tumultuous clouds.

     Normally, Elyssa would send her eyes skyward—an instinctual motion when she’s seeking guidance from the Divines—but there was no sky to be seen from where she was. Her sight was blocked by a darkened, vaulted roof, and she was confined within four slanted walls. There was even a small smattering of furniture arranged around her. Climbing to her feet to better inspect her unexpected surroundings, she was able to spot an ornate, spiked archway that led to a long hallway, which was the only path she could take, and she did so with a hollow, resigned ache.

     Despite the flames in the fireplace at her back and the torches lining the walls she passed, she was cold,  _always so cold_ , as if the heat was instead being sucked away from her to fuel the fire. Wrapping her arms around herself did little to ward away the chill, but it was more of a comforting gesture, anyway, even if it was a small one. All the while, she kept her head bowed and eyes to the ground at her feet, watching herself take small, unsure steps.

     Where the path would take her, she hadn’t the faintest idea, but the young woman didn’t want to face  _him_. She wasn’t ready after what happened last time; she would never again be ready for feeling utterly helpless. Tortured with the memory of sharing an intimacy—a disgusting, brutal mockery of it but nonetheless an intimacy—with him, it clawed restlessly within her.

     A draft wafted past her, breaking her from the monotony of her excursion. She finally forced herself to lift her eyes. The door ahead of her was slightly ajar, as if wordlessly telling her that she was permitted to pass through it. When she approached it, she unwrapped her arms from around herself and reached out to touch the frigid metal. Before she even moved to cautiously peek through the opening to assess the adjoined room, she heard her dreaded master speak just beyond it, and the sound brought with it a sharp jolt of terror. Never would she forget that voice, and never would she be able to mistake it as belonging to anyone else. But, as she listened to him, she was grateful the malicious attention wasn’t directed at her for once.

     “Through torture the body of a mortal simply breaks and heals… breaks and heals. In time, the blood will dry, the wounds will close, and the scars will fade—all inconsequential,” Molag Bal mused aloud.

     The Breton held her breath and peeked the slightest bit around the threshold of the door. As a hidden spectator, her wide eyes darted over the contents of the room, drinking it all in. Immediately, she spotted someone spread across a dais in the center of the room, hands and feet chained to the ground. She could only see a few details of the unknown person—undoubtedly a male elf—through the gaps between the arms and legs of a group of Daedra menacingly poised above their unfortunate captive. But the focal point of the scene, as always, was the imposing taskmaster of Coldharbour himself, even if she was too timid to lay her eyes on him for more than a few seconds. Nonetheless, the scene promised to be terrible, but she couldn’t look away.

     Molag Bal stood a short distance away, arms crossed over his muscular chest, as he surveyed the Daedra, with braided whips clutched in their hands, lurking over the bound person. Following the crisp snapping of leather connecting with flesh, the Lord of Brutality continued impassively, “Yet a tear of the mind will render it incapable of the simplest of tasks; it must be able to foolishly cling to an end, to delude itself into believing the suffering is merely the journey to something worthwhile.”

     The Daedric prince stepped forward and knelt beside the captive, and the torturers obediently parted for him. He reached out to prod the elf roughly in the cheek, drawing a pinpoint of blood as he did. “You retreat into your own little mind to escape the blows. Yes… it is endearing that you still hold the delusion of eventual freedom, but when will you break for me? I am eager to observe as it happens _._ ”

     Remarkably, there was no answer, not even when another whip cracked down on him in warning.

     “ _Erotic_  is the suffering of mortals. To force them to kneel in understanding of their eternal inferiority pleasures me, and to forever extinguish the light of hope within their souls completes me.” Molag Bal paused, allowing the words to sink in, before rising to his feet. He finally narrowed his attention at the peeping Breton. Raising a hand, he curled his fingers at her in beckoning. “Come to me, champion.”

     Evidently, she hesitated a few too many seconds for his liking—or perhaps he knew that her knees were trembling too much for her to manage more than a few shaky steps. Either way, he didn’t wait for her.

     The reminder that he didn’t have to touch her to manipulate her body to suit his needs was a sickening one. Seized by his infinite, intangible will, she knocked painfully into the partially opened door—the impact forcing it wide open—and her feet dragged against the ground. Closer and closer she came to the deity, and a startled cry tore itself from her throat when she was carelessly thrown at her master’s feet.

     Directly above her, he drawled, “At last you join us. I was growing unconvinced that you had the capacity to navigate a singular path.”

     The Daedra, with their red eyes merciless and leering, snickered at Elyssa’s expense as she slowly lifted her body into a kneeling position. She chanced a quick glance over her shoulder at the unknown mer, and, because of her recent proximity with so many of his race, she knew he was an Altmer.

     “Away with you,” Molag Bal ordered of his subordinates. “I alone must attend to these two.”

     As one, the torturers respectfully dipped to their prince and departed through a door opposite the one Elyssa had entered. Upon their absence, a tense silence descended on the room, and Elyssa was unprepared when she was abruptly hauled to her feet. Her hands instinctively flew out at her sides to catch herself on anything, to no avail. In her teetering, her heel caught on the edge of the dais, and her tentative balance failed her. The Altmer stiffened when she clumsily fell across him, his body tensing beneath her as he tried to shift away as much as his bindings would allow.

     Her cheeks darkened in embarrassment, and a knot of dread writhed within her. She couldn’t meet the elf’s stare, which was burning a hole through the side of her head, as if she were to blame for the forced contact between their bodies. She quickly lifted herself onto her hands to remove her weight from where it had rested over his clenched abdomen.

     “Mannimarco, my defiled servant, to where has that infamously sharp tongue of yours disappeared?” Molag Bal sneered down at the both of them. “Have you nothing to protest?”

     Mannimarco, as he was identified, faintly appeared to have been a very proud and confident mer once upon a time—probably possessing both immense skill and an impressive social standing. But now, with his tattered clothing hanging off of him as if he had grown sallow and thin, he merely turned his head away and ignored the bait.

     Elyssa didn’t know him or know  _of_  him, and she hadn’t the faintest idea for how long he had been imprisoned in Coldharbour. However, she couldn’t help but to believe that she was faced with an ominous vision. With time, would she end up like Mannimarco, too skittish from conditioning to speak her mind? Would a gentle touch become so foreign a sensation that she would automatically flinch away because she’s expecting pain?

     The Daedric Prince of Brutality made it clear that he neither wanted nor needed her and that her becoming his champion was an accident that needed swift correction. She was living on borrowed time now, and her soul was captured between Molag Bal’s pinched claws. She was terrified beyond words at the prospect of someday being where the Altmer was, but even more terrifying was the fact that she didn’t know how to escape it, if it was even possible. Never before had it been this startlingly clear what her fate would become—never had she been literally faced with one of the poor souls rotting away in Coldharbour.

     No matter what Mannimarco had done, what sort of deal he had struck with the deity to land him in such a precarious position, she ached with pity for him. To her, nobody could possibly deserve eternal torment. Thus, she was trying her best to ease his obvious discomfort with her proximity—until an unseen force landed firmly on the center of her chest and shoved her back down, buckling her elbows and sending her sprawling over the mer once again. She apologized profusely within her thoughts, caring not that Molag Bal was privy to it, because she was trembling too much to voice it.

     “When last I oversaw your regretfully disappointing punishment, Mannimarco, I was struck with inspiration.” He took a step toward them. “Your lack of reaction is unacceptable, so I—”

     “—Lord Molag Bal,” a deep feminine voice suddenly addressed in a smooth hiss from the door, capturing the deity’s attention, “my deepest apologies for the interruption. May I request a moment of your time? The Vestige is departing from Imperial City.”

     “…Very well. Let us see what he has planned.” It was clear he wasn’t pleased with the intrusion, but there was an urgency to his departure when he sank away through the ground and left Mannimarco and Elyssa, who scrambled to put some much-needed distance between them, alone together.

     “‘Champion’?” came an exceedingly dry voice—hoarse from disuse—moments later. “Hmph. My condolences.”

     Surprised, Elyssa turned to him, meeting his cool stare as he struggled to raise himself up on his elbows with a rattle of chains. Defensively, she informed him, “It was not by choice, I assure you.”

     “Oh, pardon me for leading you to believe I cared for your thoughts on the matter.” Despite his dismissive words, Mannimarco added, after a long lull, “One does not become a champion accidentally. It requires consent.”

     His words gave her pause. Was it really consent if she was forced into it for the sake of her father? It certainly blurred the line. She wrung her hands together. “Then… then I suppose I am an exception.”

     “ _Liar._  Whether you consent through words, ritual, or the murder of the previous champion, it matters not.”

     “I would never—”

     “—Am I to be impressed by your status? Have you come here to lord it over me?” he cut her off. “I suppose it is impressive that you are still alive. Molag Bal must be losing his touch. Not only is his torture failing to faze me, but he is now scraping the bottom of the barrel for champion material. What do you do to gain favor for your master? Do you flutter your lashes and play innocent?”

     “I told you that I—”

     “—Although that  _is_  to be expected—his pitiful choice in champions, that is—considering his dwindling power over Nirn. He really is a shadow of his former self, and I doubt there are so many who wish to follow him nowadays, considering the strength of the other Daedric princes in contrast. Why settle for the jester when you can appeal to the king?”

     “He will _hear_ you,” she whispered, horrified by his bluntness.

     “I am speaking aloud with the intention of being heard, worm.”

     “How can you…” She swallowed a lump in her throat and motioned helplessly at his bound position. “…How can you still retain any part of yourself in this situation? How are you not, as he put it,  _broken?_ ”

     “ **Do not**  presume I am  _at all_  like you. I am merely biding my time; the torture can be endured. You see, the Daedra are not the most creative with their methods. They invade my mind and use images of others in my former life meant to cripple me, but I do not care a thing about another person.” With a sneer twisting his lips, he lifted his chin arrogantly and narrowed his eyes. “The effort is wasted because the truth is I will not break. One does not become a powerful necromancer by being weak-willed.”

     It was clear in the way he stared back at her with the angular features of his face seemingly carved in stone. There was no falter in his words; he was being painfully honest with her. “So, what did you do to deserve—”

     “—The, ah, royal treatment? Hm. Well, simply put for the benefit of your struggling mind, I attempted to imprison Molag Bal and absorb his essence to essentially take his place as a Daedric prince. I was to become the new Lord of Domination in his stead.”

     The matter-of-fact way he stated it, as if it were nothing, had her reeling. She couldn’t even imagine that it was possible for someone who was once mortal to even come close to taking the place of a being so powerful.

     “ _Obviously_ , I failed, and this is my punishment.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “I am not his least favorite by any means, but I am certainly on the list. No, that position is reserved by either the Daedric prince Meridia or the damned Vestige.”

     His willingness to converse with her prompted her questions to pile up. Her knowledge about the defeat of Molag Bal was extremely limited, and she found herself wanting to know more about it. Before, when she was a simple alchemy merchant in a seaside village, she was just glad the whole ordeal was over. Now, she was hungry for information, anything that could possibly help her with her own dire situation. Sifting through her questions, she finally settled on what she prioritized as most important. “The Vestige—he earned his title because his soul was taken by Molag Bal. Is that right?”

     “Indeed.” A cruel little smirk quirked Mannimarco’s lips, and his eyes lit up. “I killed him myself.”

     Elyssa faltered the slightest bit but continued warily, “…And yet he somehow regained his soul. How—”

     “—Yes,  _yes_ , I know what you’re getting at,” he dismissed impatiently. “Your soul belongs to Molag Bal, and you are wondering if there’s a possibility that it can be freed. In other words, you wish to follow the path of the Vestige.”

     She gave a wordless nod and fought against the hope that was bubbling within her chest. It was a losing battle.

     “Consider this: Daedric princes are fickle things, and they are exceedingly full of themselves. Their demands cost a tub of blood in loyalty and sacrifice. They ally themselves with royalty and heroes, not expendable commoners. Are you, by any chance, of royal blood or a hero of legend as sung by the bards?” It was clearly a rhetorical question, as he immediately shook his head and snickered. Regaining his composure, he eyed her crestfallen expression distastefully. “There are  _so many_  like you here.”

     “…You are a completely different person when Molag Bal is not present,” she quietly pointed out. “But I did not imagine how you could not even look at him and how your lips were sealed. Your tough bravado is not fooling me. You are… you’re afraid of him.”

     “Your pity is drowning me,” he drawled haughtily. After a lengthy pause of the two of them sizing each other up, he continued, “The Vestige offered to free me when he traipsed through Coldharbour like the reckless hero he insists on being. He looked upon me with that same look you’ve been wearing, but the band of morons who followed him assured him that I was deserving of such imprisonment. Perhaps their heads weren’t so hollow; I surely would have pursued them for my revenge, had they released me. Eventually.”

     Elyssa’s brow furrowed further at that. She opened her mouth to speak, but she didn’t get the chance to utter a single word.

     “Ultimately, the Vestige decided to leave me here. Knowing what little he did about me, he thought it to be the lesser of two evils, even if his heart utterly  _bled_  for me—and I take some pleasure in knowing the regret of that decision will nag at him for the rest of his pathetic life.” With a faraway look in his eyes and a spiteful smile twisting his lips, he paused for a few moments. He shook himself out of it and continued heatedly, “Listen well. I chose to follow the Lord of Domination and to blaspheme the dead because it suited my needs. I did not give life; I took it away. And I did it quite happily, actually. Don’t you see? Nobody— _nobody_ —innocent consorts with a Daedric prince. Unseat yourself from your high horse immediately.”

     At his biting words, she frowned contemplatively. Her first instinct was to disagree vehemently to defend herself, but she stopped herself in time. Attempting to sacrifice somebody’s soul, even to save another, was a despicable act that would haunt her forever. The fact of the matter was that, if she hadn’t agreed to trick somebody into following her up to the Doomcrag, she would never have become a Daedric prince’s champion. It was her own fault, and, like Mannimarco, she would pay dearly for it for an unfathomable amount of time. But, unlike him, she didn’t know how she would endure when her time came; her resolve was already dishearteningly shaky. However, she didn’t have time to dwell on the increasingly frequent topic.

     “I  **will not**  be stuck here for an eternity—I refuse. So, save your disgusting pity,  _champion_. You surely will need it for yourself,” Mannimarco muttered, dropping his head back against the dais and sighing heavily, “…because Molag Bal returns.”

     Even before the words passed the Altmer’s lips, Elyssa sensed the deity’s presence just as his intimidating shadow fell over them, every horn jutting from his form appearing even more sinister, exaggerated as it was in the candlelight. With his return, there was a subtle but undeniable pulse in the air that hadn’t existed before—palpable anger—and it unnerved her completely.

     “You challenge me with your blasphemous words,” Molag Bal snarled, thumping his spiked, reptilian tail on the ground audibly. “I accept.”

     Despite his swagger and confidence, despite his venomous words and unflinching arrogance, when faced with an angry god, Mannimarco couldn’t hide a minute flash of unease that passed over his features, briefly transforming him into the prisoner that he was. But it was quickly suppressed and replaced with a stony mask.

     “When one is being tortured, it is a personal experience between the inflictor and the captive. In the same way you mortals cope with the reality of your miserable existences, after some time you become numb to it. Once the belief that it cannot intensify any further sets in, it is, in a way… a comfort—something consistent to which you can cling.”

     For the third time, Elyssa was forced to flop unceremoniously across the necromancer, but, unlike the other few times, she didn’t attempt to correct the situation and instead laid there motionless with bated breath. Against her will, she began to imagine the scenarios that would take place with her in that position, and she was growing horrified and mortified by the licentious implications. Considering the rape she had been subjected to, she didn’t think it was unreasonable to assume there would be more in her future.

     “But—in I bring someone unexpected and break the monotony, and you cannot simply lay there like an unfeeling corpse any longer. You are ashamed that someone is here to witness your glorious fall, and it motivates you to be actively engaged in the moment. In that, the shame has chipped away at your shell, allowing me entry once again.  _The suffering has begun anew._ ”

     With that, Molag Bal lurched forward and dropped to his knees, one on each side of Elyssa. He placed his hands on the smooth surface of the dais and hovered in place, trapping her with his dark body. Even though he was staring directly at his champion—and she was frozen, staring back—his words thus far had not been directed at her. It was as if she were nothing more than an object in his eyes.

     “As you have wisely deduced, this is my champion, though she was not my first choice. Without combat prowess or a wealth of knowledge, she is essentially worthless… but I have found that she possesses some uses.” He dragged his fingers down the front of her dress, his nails catching on loose threads and carelessly ripping them out. Downward he continued, tracing the curves of her body, the jutting points of her hipbones, and the knobbiness of her knees—all the way down to the hem of the garment, which rested just above her ankles. Finally, wrapping his other hand controllingly around her jaw, he addressed her, “What is a tool but something to be used until obsolete and later replaced? For now, you are invaluable to me… but not for much longer.”

     Elyssa choked on her next inhale, and her eyes burned with unshed tears. There was no time to dwell on his meaning because, in the next moment, there was an audible tearing of fabric as her dress was torn in half all the way up to her collar, leaving her covered only by her faded undergarments. With a mindless urgency, she reached up to clutch the tattered remains of her clothing to cover herself, but her hands were immediately shoved away.

     She could only watch, with churning nausea, as Molag Bal simultaneously pushed the cloth laying over her breasts up to her collarbone and hooked a finger under the strip of fabric between her thighs to cut the threads keeping it wrapped around her waist. The undergarments fell away, leaving her open completely for his view. Another attempt to cover herself was swiftly met with resistance, and her wrists were pinned uselessly above her head. With her back arched over Mannimarco’s abdomen, her chest was jutting, as if in invitation, up toward her cruel master.

     “ _Disgusting_ ,” Mannimarco finally spat, unable to remain unfazed. His features twisted, torn between embarrassment and anger, at the sight of the nude young woman. “She does not even seem useful for—for  **that** , as scrawny and pathetic as she is. But you Daedra prefer that sort of thing, do you not? You’re not aroused by your own kind, so you forcibly impose yourself upon unsuspecting mortals, in every sense of the phrase.”

     “Hm. I only know what I prefer. It is true; common Daedra revel in pain. But Daedric princes are infinitely more complex than that. For me, it matters not what she looks like, only that she submits to my will. The combined torment of the both of you should serve well in appeasing me here.”

     The Daedric prince cupped his hand in the air and, after a few moments, tilted it over her body. A warm and sticky fluid splashed over her breasts and rolled its way down her abdomen, gathering briefly in her belly button, before soaking her curly pubic hair. His fiery blue eyes devoured the expanse of her flesh as Elyssa tentatively lifted her head to see what he had covered her with.

     She reacted with the swift widening of her eyes and terror and disgust overtaking her features. Dark crimson blood drenched her chest, smeared in rivulets all the way down to her legs, and she fought against the urge to vomit. It was a morbid, gruesome sight—as if someone had stabbed her repeatedly and left her to bleed to death.  _Whose blood is it?_  was a fleeting thought; she didn’t really want to know.

     Instead of answering her, Molag Bal further lowered himself over her. Cold breath fanned over her exposed skin, stimulating gooseflesh wherever it touched. Inches away from her small breasts, a long, thin tongue slid out of his mouth and traced a slick path between the slight curves of her chest, tasting the blood pooled there. The appendage slid up to one of her nipples, and he focused his attention there, flicking against the soft areola.

     Unwittingly, her nipple perked up and slowly hardened into a pucker under the insistent teasing of his tongue. Her head fell back, replacing her view of the Daedric prince with that of the ceiling. She was extremely sensitive under his lewd ministrations, and the gentle motions, despite her disgust with the deity, were slightly pleasurable, though she fought it with everything she had. Cupping her other breast, his fingers pinched and twisted to invoke the same reaction from her nipple. A tortured little moan escaped her—which quickly turned into a scream as Molag Bal reinforced her foul opinion about him by suddenly biting down on her.

     It wasn’t a bite meant to rip her flesh from her body, but it was enough to draw blood in a series of stinging wounds. She sobbed, eyes blurred with tears that she couldn’t restrain, as he contentedly drank the blood from her wound. Only once it coagulated did he take his attention away from her breasts and move down her body to taste the dried blood adorning her. For a second, she thought he would bury his mouth against her slit, and she panicked at the thought of what sort of damage his teeth would do there.

     But, with a lingering flick of his blood-soaked tongue, Molag Bal straightened up to loom above her with a certain eagerness in his motions. Sweeping his loincloth aside, he granted her the sight of his dark, erect length—extremely long and thick, curved and muscular, with the bulbous head encircled by a crown of tiny spikes. He allowed her only a few moments to stare at its wicked design before gathering her thighs in his hands and hooking them around his own. As he pushed against her, the tip of his cock nudged her folds, parting them, but she was tight and unyielding against his languid grinding.

     In the physical realm, she was still a virgin, and, thus, it would never get any easier for her to endure. The burn of his forced entry prompted a strangled cry from her lips and a squirm of her hips to unsuccessfully escape him. Similar to the last time he violated her, the little barbs tore at her vaginal walls, serving to intensify her agony for his pleasure. It seemed an eternity had passed before he was fully sheathed inside of her body, and he paused for a moment, enjoying the rush of blood tickling at his hard flesh. With his path fully lubricated, he smoothly slid out of her to the tip, stretching her open just enough and bringing a gush of crimson with him, and abruptly slammed back in. He repeated the motion with increasing roughness each time, jolting her rhythmically atop Mannimarco and cruelly yanking the elf back to the present, which he was struggling to block out.

     All the while, the Altmer’s face was permanently etched with outraged disgust, and he had long since looked away, though he could picture everything that was happening from hearing alone. His bound hands were unable to reach his ears, or he would have most assuredly tried to smother the piercing of her uncontrollable, blubbering cries and the obscenely wet sounds of their unholy coupling.

     Unable to find purchase, Elyssa's thighs slid down the Daedric prince’s flesh, catching painfully on tiny horns that dotted it, which coaxed more bleeding. The stench of her blood hung heavily in the air, suffocating, and she choked on it. Beyond that, she was unable to take her mind away from the trauma; she was aware of every inch that pushed into her and stretched her to her limits. She felt the prickle of his claws scraping along the skin of her abdomen up to her uninjured breast, which was cupped once again. She could hear every sound that escaped her tormentor, even the quietest of breaths.

     A throaty groan tore from Molag Bal as he squashed his pelvis to hers as tightly as was possible, his cock completely swallowed by her writhing, clenching innards. His eyes were closed, and his bulging muscles twitched—it was obvious that he was gripped with pleasure in the simultaneous anguish of his servants. While he brutally fucked her toward his own powerful climax, the motions were hurried and uneven, growing more shallow as the minutes ticked by.

     However, before the deity could reach that point, and to her immense relief and bafflement, the rape was cut short. The stifling pressure of Molag Bal atop her lifted and dissipated away. The spot of warmth seeping through the back of her tattered dress from Mannimarco’s body cooled and disappeared completely. Colors distorted and contorted around her, warping into unrecognizable shapes seemingly in slow motion. Her subsiding sobs were suddenly deafeningly loud, as if she were encompassed in a little bubble, disconnecting her from anything but her panicked thoughts and quick little breaths. The agony that had seized her moments ago faded away into a mere whisper of sensation.

     She had no fathomable idea how long she remained suspended in that disconcerting rift of nothingness, but the crawling hues around her twisted more and more into focus until they became vibrant greens and browns that weren’t to be found in the slice of Oblivion she was most familiar with, and, without warning, time righted itself and skipped forward in a flash. Within mere seconds, she was assaulted by the stabbing sensation of icy water splashing over her, hands grabbing her when she jolted violently into a sitting position, and her throat tearing under the intensity of a piercing scream. She thrashed against the solid grips on her upper arms and legs, and something landed heavily atop her, pinning her against the ground.

     Very unlike the raspy baritone of Molag Bal, an unfamiliar voice yelled out over her screaming, “Shut her up!  _Damn!_ ”

     Immediately following the gruff order, a dirty piece of cloth was stuffed into her mouth, and, without first weighing the consequences, she bit down on the fingers that darted into her mouth.

     “Bitch!” The man yanked his fingers away from her, and the palm of his other hand connected solidly with her cheek, sending her head flying to the side from the impact.

     “You see? She’s quiet now. Maybe you should’ve just hit her instead of sticking your fingers in her mouth. Do you go up to a caged fox and put your hand near its mouth? No, you don’t. Common sense.”

     “Looking at him, I’d say he puts his face near its mouth. Just the sight of it makes anyone fly into a rage.”

     Startled by bouts of boisterous, masculine laughter erupting all around her, Elyssa, wide-eyed with confusion and panic, was unable to comprehend who the men were or how she had ended up in their company, but it was a small mercy to be fully dressed and hidden away from their leering eyes. From her place on the ground, she cautiously watched them go about their business in what appeared to be their campsite. Filthy men stared unblinkingly at her from their tents and cots, while others conversed over a steaming pot or collected piles of firewood.

     Had she merely dreamed about the Altmer arresting her for suspicious activity at the Doomcrag? Had she passed out on that mossy patch and been encountered by this roving band of men—who saw no problems with abducting a sleeping young woman—instead? She was heavily disoriented from her head wound, but, when she moved her hand to gingerly touch the bloody skin, she did not imagine the iron shackles that impeded her movement.  _No, I didn’t dream any of it,_  she told herself. In a way, the bindings were a comfort. She wasn’t sure how she would feel if she had imagined the entirety of the last week.

     Noticing again the attention she was gaining from her peripherals, the back of her neck prickled uncomfortably. This wasn’t a safe place for her or any woman, and she needed to escape as soon as possible. But, with her wrists and ankles incapacitated and several people watching her every move, she didn’t know how she would manage it. So, for the first—and hopefully last—time, she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed furiously to Molag Bal.  _Help me, Master_ , she pleaded within her mind. Although she knew he had the capacity to hear her thoughts, she didn’t know if he was actually listening to them. Still, she took in a shaky breath of air and focused on her prayer, her hands pressing together in front of her body.

     “What are—oh, you’re praying. Cute.” The man chuckled before huskily continuing, “I’ll give you somethin’ to pray about.”

     Large, hairy hands wrenched her wrists apart, while someone else crouched in the dry grass behind her. She jerked away when the man at her back wormed his arms around her to grab at her clothed breasts.

     “So they  _are_  under there!” he jeered, squeezing his fingers into her flesh roughly. “Mm, they’re  **soft**. I’d almost forgotten what they felt like in my hands.”

     “You didn’t forget; you couldn’t keep your hands off ‘em when she was unconscious,” someone called out.

 _I beg of you, Molag Bal. I need your help to escape from here_ , she thought, blinking against a fresh wave of tears. She didn’t expect him to care about her fate, as he already had her death planned. But, after a lifetime of silence from the Divines, he was her only tangible source of hope, and she would worry about the consequences later. For now, her only desire was to leave the horrible campsite and its lecherous inhabitants far behind.  _Please. Please help me._

     She was shoved to the ground on her back, but she didn’t stop praying to him.

     “I know you’re listening to us. Closing your eyes won’t make us think you’re asleep.”

     Her hem of her dress was shoved upward inch-by-terrible-inch, revealing her legs to her captors, but she didn’t stop praying to him.

     “Wow, you’re pale all over. I like that. Reminds me of this girl I had a few years back. She was a sweetie.”

     Her thighs were nudged apart, baring her undergarments for all to see, but she didn’t stop praying to him.

     And then, at long last, when a hand slid up her skin toward the apex of her quivering thighs, her prayer was answered, starting when the hand pulled away from its destination abruptly to the cacophony of terrified shouts and screams.

     “What’s… what is—what in Oblivion  _is_  that?!”

     There were a few moments of tense silence, and she didn’t open her eyes to see what was happening. When her wrists were released, she pressed her palms together and continued to pray.

     “Run! Just run!  ** _Go_** _!_ ”

     Elyssa was released and abandoned, shoved aside like a broken toy. The bandits clamored through the campsite uproariously, scattering in all different directions in an incomprehensible garble of frightened nonsense. She was left to pick herself off the ground and make her escape.

     Whatever the Daedric prince did to the bandits to scare them so badly, she didn’t know. She didn’t want to know. But, for once, her fleeing wasn’t to the stench of death permeating the air she breathed, and she was thankful for that small fact.

     “Your inevitable death at the hands of those pathetic insects would have meant a new and unwanted champion.” Molag Bal’s bodiless voice prickled at her skin as she burst through the foliage. “Be grateful, for I have other plans for your end.”

     Truthfully, even though he had answered her prayers, she was far from grateful—for anything in her miserable life since her father disappeared. The shackles were heavy around her wrists and ankles, and she nearly tripped over the sagging chains every couple shuffles. Her eyes were wide and staring straight ahead, and her breath was fast and shallow. She couldn’t think; her body was moving on its own in a mindless direction, operating purely on survival instinct at this point.

     Only once she stumbled upon the road did she slow her pace and finally halt on the cobblestone. She took a moment to catch her breath and swung her head from side to side, trying to make sense of where she was. Nothing looked familiar to her; it was open road in both directions. Additionally, the sun was just overhead, proving little use in navigating. Making a decision was tough, but she finally decided to head to her left, thinking it might take her back toward Northsalt Village. She dreaded the journey ahead of her, as it would take her over a week on foot to arrive back in the comfort of her home.

     Elyssa was tired and sore, thirsty and hungry. In the span of less than a full day, she had been brutally raped by a Daedric prince and captured by bandits who intended to defile and murder her. In the span of less than two weeks, she had attempted to sacrifice someone, become the champion of Molag Bal and was raped in the aftermath of the ritual, and was arrested for something she hadn’t done. And, just in the last month, she had lost track of her father—her only surviving family member—and had no idea if he was even alive anymore. Her burdens were heavy upon her shoulders, and she slouched as she walked. Luck was a foreign concept to her; if anything, she was horribly cursed.

     But she was still alive and, for the most part, physically unharmed. She had a goal that encouraged her to put one foot in front of the other and continue down the path ahead of her. She had the clothes on her back and a home to return to. She had to stay strong for her father’s sake—and she would. She had vowed it.

     Lost in thought, it didn’t take her long to arrive at the closest town. At first, she felt a sense of relief when she saw the buildings a short distance away, knowing she would be able to rest and quench her appetite and thirst. But the sign came into view, and she knew she had made a mistake. Two paths had been available to her, and she took the wrong one.

     The weathered sign, creaking on its post in the light wind that swept by, informed her that she had arrived in the quaint little town of Hoarfrost Downs, which she knew was extremely close to Shornhelm. She stopped and stared at it, forlorn. It was extremely discouraging knowing she had to turn around and retrace the steps she had already taken and was still no closer to home.

     And then something shiny caught her eye, and she glanced up to inspect it closer. There was an armored group stationed in the town center, headed by someone so undeniably familiar that it had her stifling a gasp and throwing herself behind the nearest home before she could be seen.

     It was Kelkemmeriil, her arrester, who was clearly asking around to see if anyone had seen her.

     Elyssa couldn’t believe her bad luck—would it ever end? She held her breath and placed her hands on the stone wall, only to immediately curse herself when her chains rattled at the motion. Remaining still, she listened intently for anyone to approach her hiding spot. She was poised like that until her back started to hurt, praying fervently that she wouldn’t be found. The sun dipped in the sky, and she didn’t move, instead keeping her ears perked for the telltale sound of metal clattering on metal.

     When it finally came, she startled so badly that she accidentally shook her chains once again, but, to her immense relief, it proved to be the sound of the soldiers mounting their horses in preparation to depart the village. Once they were all assembled and packed up, they nudged their horses into trots and disappeared down the road opposite the way she had come from, clearly headed for Shornhelm.

     The young woman crept behind the cover of houses, assessing the situation in town. Lack of money aside, she couldn’t simply walk into the inn and request a room or a meal since Kelkemmeriil had already stopped by and asked after her. Draped in chains, she was unable to pretend she wasn’t branded as a criminal, and she fretted over her indecision—would she have to resort to stealing? She couldn’t go forever without food and water, but she was unable to free herself from her bindings.

     Continuing to crouch, she slipped through the fence encompassing a farmhouse. Her dress caught on the splintered wood, and the back door to the house swung open. In a panic, she ripped her dress to free herself, and she glanced around wildly for anywhere suitable to hide. Thankfully, there was a nearby cart filled with tall bales of hay, and she threw herself toward it. Dropping into a crouch behind it, she couldn’t help but to eavesdrop.

     “ _Wait_ —you’re going now?” a woman demanded faintly from the depths of the house.

     “Yes, you know there’s a horse show in Northpoint soon. I’m going to need to rush to make it in time to drop off this last load of hay.”

     “Well, will you be back in time to see your son off?”

     Excited by the information, Elyssa didn’t pause to listen to the rest of the conversation. She climbed into the back of the cart and hid herself amongst the bales of hay. Resting her head against the stiff bundle, she let out a small sigh and relaxed for the first time in what seemed to be ages. Finding a free ride to Northpoint was a pleasant change, and she dared to think her luck was finally changing.

     Surrounded by her friends and the warmth and familiarity of her home and family’s possessions, she would be able to come up with a way to free herself from the grip of Molag Bal. She decided then and there that she wouldn’t continue to keep it from her friends. Three heads were better than one, after all, and she was cautiously optimistic that they wouldn’t turn her away if she explained everything.

     Everything would be fine. It was the mantra she assured herself with as she felt her unexpected savior attach the cart to his horse. The cart shook when the man heaved himself into the seat at the front and took the reins, and it rumbled to a comforting roll when the horse was prodded into a fast trot.

     She hadn’t expected to fall asleep, but her eyelids were heavy. She dozed off despite her efforts to remain alert, and she curled up against the support of the hay, basking in the last warming rays of the sun.

     When she later awoke, it was to the cart jolting and slowing to a halt. The sky was painted in the vivid pinks and oranges of the encroaching sunset, and, for several moments, she silently enjoyed the beautiful sight lolling endlessly above her like a painting. Feeling better than she had the entire week, she stretched her arms out in front of her and popped her stiff joints, yawning. She knew Fell’s Run was a few days’ journey away from Hoarfrost Downs and wondered if they were stopping for camp already. The young Breton took a quick peek out from behind the hay, and her heart suddenly jumped into her throat.

     She couldn’t believe it.

     It was Kelkemmeriil— _again._  The regal mer and his guards were gathered at the gate to what she recognized, with a hint of horrified disbelief, as Shornhelm. The cart was being halted for inspection, and all they had to do was glance over the side to see her nestled in the hay. Going unnoticed was out of the question, and, in a split second, she acted without thinking.

     At the shrill jangle of her chains when she leaped from the back of the cart, the Altmer snapped his head up and toward the source of the sound.

     For a few seconds of horror, she met his shocked eyes, which quickly hardened with resolve at the sight of her. It didn’t take her a second thought to order her body to spin around and rush away as quickly as her shackles would allow—back in the direction she had just come from. But her progress was quickly interrupted when her dragging chains caught on something, the abruptness of which had her staggering to keep her balance, failing, and falling heavily on her hands and knees.

     She bit down on her lip to stifle a pained gasp when she felt the skin of her knee scrape upon impact with the rough stone path, but it was nothing compared to the hopelessness that blossomed within her. From arrest to kidnap to imprisonment—she again asked herself,  _Would it ever end?_  Was she doomed to always be a prisoner, allowing others to dictate the direction of her life?

     “How fortuitous,” Kelkemmeriil commented, his foot firmly planted on her chains and—not that she could manage it in her crippling despair—preventing her from moving another inch, “…that you survived and escaped the attack from those bandits. And even more fortuitous is the fact that you found your way back to me.”

     Absentmindedly, she raked her chipped, bloodstained nails across the grainy contours of the ground beneath her. Her cheek was pressed to the cool stone, and she breathed in dirt with every shaky inhale. Recalling the events of the day, she was blank. She had no more tears left to cry in the miserable aftermath. She was cursed; she simply had to be.


	8. An Uneasy Path Diverts into an Uncertain Future

> _“I almost didn’t notice you… except for this strange feeling that came over me at your nearness, and I had no choice but to investigate. You see, I sense that Lord Molag Bal almost **drips**  from you. I am rather envious, actually.”_

_11th Day of Frostfall_

     In the past, Elyssa cherished the times she passed through the grand walls encircling the glorious capital city of Rivenspire—Shornhelm, with its neatly packed houses and merchant stalls and its array of interesting-looking people from the farthest reaches of Tamriel. She would wait patiently for her father to haggle with a fellow merchant, whose exotic eyes gleamed intelligently from beneath wraps of bright, silky cloth and whose long, furry tail never failed to cause her to ogle in delight.

_“The Khajiit can usually be haggled down if you have a good story to share,” her father, a natural-born storyteller, advised her during her very first visit, as he pointed out the first Khajiit she ever laid eyes on. With a twinkle of laughter shining in his eyes, he nudged her and prompted with a sweep of his hand, “Why don’t you try, Elyssa? ‘This one’ looks promising.”_

     Truthfully, she wasn’t much of a storyteller, being one to often stumble on her spoken words and accidentally jumble the sequence of key details, but it never seemed to matter. On that day, when she had shuffled shyly up to the merchant and attempted to describe to him the cat she spotted on the outskirts of Fell’s Run during her journey, she lost her nerve when she realized it might have been rude to compare the magnificent orange hue of the Khajiit’s fur to that of a wild animal. Nonetheless, as petrified and wide-eyed as she had been, she ended up trotting back to the arms of her father while holding up the front of her dress—laden with exotic treats for a fraction of the price for which they had been advertised.

     Elyssa hadn’t been able to find it within herself to tell him that it was because the Khajiit merchant simply felt pity for her, as flustered as she became. In her younger age, it wasn’t something she dwelled on for very long, especially while stuffing her face with frosted sugar-moon cakes, but it was a hard thing to accept in her adulthood. Her tongue was not a gift of her race; she was just too pathetic to be denied. But, on top of everything else, she didn’t want to acknowledge the creeping of self-loathing and instead forcibly pushed it aside.

     As far as she could tell with the few cursory glances she could manage with the Altmer assembled tightly around her, Shornhelm hadn’t changed at all since she last visited, but she might as well have been in a foreign city, as little as she recognized it. In truth, the tiny and carefree child who waded in a bath of golden, protective light beheld things differently. A beaten woman—having only the thin clothes on her back to shield her from the horrors of a world smashed firmly against the realm of demonic, merciless beings who snapped lives apart as easily as a twig snapped underfoot—could not keep that beautiful illusion from slipping through the gaps of her fingers. There was nothing magical about the visit, and it was a town like any other.

     “Get your blades here, hot off the anvil! No finer iron to be found anywhere in Tamriel!”

     “As if their dull paperweights could compare to the work of the masters of Valenwood,” Solinar muttered just loudly enough for his fellows and Elyssa to hear.

     “‘Ey, Lysona, you tell ‘em to put out another round, all on me!” a tipsy-looking man called out in the direction of the pub he just stumbled from. “I’m just gonna step outside and, y’know, _take care of business_.”

     “Unnecessary to tell me that, Tristard!” a woman called back good-naturedly through the open door when she stuck her blonde head out. She shot him a toothy smile. “Yeah, I’ll tell ‘em—but I hope you have enough coin left after last night.”

     “Aw, don’t you worry about me. I—”

     “— _Mind yourself!_ ” Solinar barked when Tristard, who was facing the opposite way and therefore couldn’t see them coming, tottered backward in the way of their path. The sheer volume of the command had the Breton man jumping aside quickly enough. “The Queen’s Own will not be impeded by a lumbering, drunken lout!”

     “Fresh-picked berries, the last of the season! Get them while they’re still ripe with juices!” A stout merchant held up a box of her stock as they passed, but she was ignored. “They’re sweeter than sugar, I promise you that!”

     Kelkemmeriil, at his second-in-command’s side, pressed a hand to his forehead, as if fighting back a particularly nasty headache. When he spoke, his voice was loud enough for all passersby to hear and dripped with derision. “Ugh, I cannot wait to return to the civility and fragrant sophistication of Vulkhel Guard. This hovel reeks of unwashed feet and horse droppings, and I’m truly going to be sick.”

     Elyssa sourly bit down on the inside of her cheek, annoyed with the insulting comments. Even if she didn’t live in Shornhelm, she was protective of it.

     Through the rambunctious crowds they made their way up to the castle of Shornhelm, which was nestled behind towering walls and no shortage of hawk-eyed guards. Once granted permission to enter the gates, the common noise disappeared behind thick steel and wood, and they ascended the numerous stairs that led to the focal point of the town. Shut away completely from the noisy inhabitants and dotted with only a few expensively dressed nobles—arm-in-silk-draped-arm with each other—taking quiet strolls, it seemed to be its very own settlement, disconnected from the rest of Tamriel. Amongst a row of exquisite two-story manors and well-manicured foliage was the home of the Rivenspire royals and the weary group’s final destination.

     When they approached the entrance to the castle, a uniformed man, who was flanked on both sides by similarly dressed men, held up a hand, indicating for them to halt. The medals pinned to his chest gleamed brilliantly. “Hail, fellows. I am Captain Peryval Moorham of the King’s Guard of Rivenspire. Now, identify yourselves and state your business.”

     “Hail, and well met. I am Battlereeve Kelkemmeriil of Vulkhel Guard, and these are my subordinates.” The regal mer gestured to the Altmer gathered around him before folding his hands behind his back and lifting his chin in self-importance. “I’m certain a man of your stature would have spied my missive, but, if not, I’ve been investigating the assassination attempt on your king. If you would, inform him that we have arrived with a possible perpetrator to await his judgment.”

     “Yes, I remember hearing something about that. But… can you be sure?” With raised eyebrows, he glanced at Elyssa, who was drooping sullenly in the hold of her captors.

     “I assure you that I am very sure.” Kelkemmeriil inclined his head, stone-faced. Despite his words, however, he retrieved a key from the depths of his robes and moved to remove the shackles that adorned the Breton’s abused wrists. He impassively inspected the dried blood on the metal before continuing, “Do not allow her appearance to deceive you; that is her intention. We have reason to believe she consorts with Daedra. Our witness should arrive shortly to relay the events that recently took place within the Doomcrag— _ah_ , as I speak. Here he is now.”

     Another voice, undeniably familiar, announced, “Battlereeve, I apologize profusely for the wait. The guards doubted I had business here at the castle.”

     “Fine, fine. Now, make yourself useful. Your escort awaits.”

     Elyssa glanced up in time to see _him_ step into view. The look on his face said it all: nonchalant, as if fashionably late for a party. And, seeing him here while her fate was being casually determined—knowing what he did to her when all she did was offer help—something inside of her snapped, releasing an oozing, pitch-black puddle of hate that pooled within her. She hadn’t realized just how furious she was with him, as distracted as she had been with everything that took place since that fateful day, and she dearly wished she had gotten the chance to see him inescapably enslaved to the Lord of Brutality in her place. It was a terrible thought, definitely one of her worst, but she couldn’t restrain it, just as she couldn’t restrain the way her features twisted with her sudden emotion.

     “ _Thief! **Liar**!_ ” Elyssa spat, lurching forward as much as she could before she was grabbed tighter. “I did nothing to you! I’m innocent, and you know it! What have you told them?! None of it is true! _Tell them!_ ”

     Cocher startled violently at her accusations and glanced at Kelkemmeriil, who didn’t return the gesture or acknowledge him whatsoever. The Bosmer had nothing to say in rebuttal and, like a skittish field mouse, simply darted into the castle when the doors opened for him.

     The young Breton panted lightly in the aftermath of her ferocity and hung her head, hiding her face behind a curtain of dirty, matted hair. The anger that had gripped her was gone as quickly as it came, leaving her reeling about its source. What had she accomplished with her outburst other than losing her composure in front of those who would condemn her? It was wasted energy and, moreover, completely unlike her.

     “ _Well_ , then,” Moorham quipped and cleared his throat pointedly. “However, there is a little matter I need to address before we continue. We don’t—ah, you see, this puts us in a bit of an awkward position. We actually don’t have manacles befitting of such… well, tiny wrists.”

     “I see. That is most unfortunate, but I simply cannot part with mine. They were fashioned by a famous Valenwood blacksmith, and his wishes are that they remain within the continent. I must honor it, you understand.”

     “Fine, fine,” the captain muttered. “We’ll come up with something more permanent once we consult with King Alard, whenever that may be.”

     “And where is the king on this fine evening?”

     “He is attending to the preparations for the social that is being held for visiting nobles tomorrow evening. He cannot be bothered right this moment, but if you’d be willing to wait a few hours…”

     Kelkemmeriil raised a pale eyebrow at that. “Does he think it wise to invite guests into his home, considering?”

     “… _We_ didn’t think it to be,” he responded gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest. “But the social was scheduled long before the assassination took place and cannot be canceled. According to the queen and her appointed council, some things are ‘ _simply not done_.’”

     “Hm, quite. Well, surely you will relay to him my fondest farewell. I’m afraid we do not have hours to spare, if we are to catch the next international ship out of Wayrest. It’s time for us to return to Auridon. However, I’m sure Cocher—that is, the witness—will provide any information you need to expedite the trial.”

     “Certainly. Safe travels to you and your party, and thank you for your hard work in the service of Rivenspire.”

     With that, Elyssa was handed off to her new jailors and steered away by firm grasps of the arms, undoubtedly to be led to the dungeon and her new home for the time being, but, before she and her accompanying guards could disappear within the depths of the castle, she heard the head Altmer call out as an afterthought, “Ah—and feed her, won’t you? Posthaste. I’m sure she must be famished.”

     Her lips thinned into a tight line. She tried to glance over her shoulder at him in order to dissect his expression, but her vision was impeded by the burly chest of Captain Moorham, who took his place behind her to ensure she was thoroughly blocked on all sides. Across the threshold they went into the soothing warmth of the castle, and the heavy doors swung shut behind them, signaling what the young Breton hoped was the last she would ever see of her elven captor—should she be so lucky. She shivered slightly at the abrupt change in temperature.

     There was a pleasant chatter somewhere beyond the stone walls and Covenant-blue tapestries, but she was unable to see who the voices belonged to, as quickly as she was marched by. That was when she caught the subtle, delectable fragrances of freshly baked bread and smoked meat, and she deeply inhaled them while she could. Her stomach rumbled fiercely in desire.

     “Stairs,” the man to her right immediately announced, giving her slight warning before they started descending, undoubtedly, to the dungeon.

     Two sets of staircases divided by a single landing brought them to the lowest floor, and there was a noticeable chill, as well as a musty, damp odor that foretold mold and other such unsavory conditions ahead of her. There was no fire, baked bread, or savory meat to be found down there.

     Elyssa could have cried, but she didn’t. It wouldn’t help her. Moreover, she didn’t want them to think she was fishing for pity. She didn’t need pity; she needed them to see the truth. To herself, she vehemently protested her treatment and fantasized about the home she left behind, and, before she knew it, there was a shrill squeal of unused hinges as the door to her cell was opened. She was gently pushed inside, and the door was locked behind her.

     There was nothing inside except for a small chamber pot and, pushed against the far wall, a crude wooden bench that was unbalanced on one side. Taking a seat, she glanced at the dangling pair of rusty shackles bolted to the wall next to her and gingerly rubbed at one of her freed wrists, grateful she didn’t have to wear hers anymore. She was certain her time spent clapped with metal would leave faint scars, but it was far from a concern. Taking a moment to assess the rest of her condition, Elyssa brushed her fingers against the back of her head, feeling the crusty blood clinging to her hair. It crumbled apart on her fingers, and she wiped the residue on her tattered dress. Her headache persisted in a dull ache, barely noticeable but making itself known every few moments, but she didn’t think it to be life-threatening. Still, she wished she had either a poultice or a restoration staff to treat it and wondered where she would ever find another suitable staff, assuming the Divines— _Or_ _Molag Bal,_ she sardonically reminded herself _—_ saw her fairly through the ordeal. It wasn’t as if she had any money to purchase or even the skills to craft one.

     It wasn’t long before she had her first visitor, though whoever the woman was didn’t linger for very long. Elyssa certainly wouldn’t have, had she been in her place.

     “It was requested that she have this before King Alard sees to her. Would you…?”

     “Fine.” There was a shuffle as one of her guards turned to her cell. “Here. Eat up.”

     A bowl was passed through the bars and set on the ground, and she shifted and moved forward to inspect it. The unremarkable clay bowl was filled with a steamy, clear broth with a few slices of vegetables floating at the surface, and the sight of it excited her. She cupped the bowl in her hands and slurped down the watery stew, grateful to have something to quench her needs. As the taste—or lack thereof—registered, she noted that it was probably one of the most uninspiring dishes she had ever had, but, in that moment, she was pleased and silently wished for seconds. Licking her bowl clean, she steadily ignored her observers, who hid their identities beneath their shadowy helmets. Did she resemble a ravenous animal after a slaughter? Probably—but she didn’t care what they thought of her display.

     Once she finished her meal, she could only sit back on her creaky bench in her empty cell and stare at the wall. She pressed her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them in order to conserve heat, but it wasn’t as effective as she would have liked. Eventually, her guards stopped staring at her, as they had grown disinterested with her lack of movement, and she was free to let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her shoulders sagged without the weight of their constant stares on her person.

     Elyssa honestly didn’t think that the Shornhelm guards wanted to come anywhere near her in her grime-riddled state in any sort of licentious way… but, considering what sort of things had happened to her in the recent past, she knew anything was possible. The temptation was clearly there—the dungeon was far from the majority of the activity of the castle, and she was completely alone with them. But, as what felt like hours slipped by, she was relieved that her fears were unfounded; they did nothing more than periodically shift their positions in small clatters of armor. Even in the low light, her filth was obvious. Or perhaps they weren’t interested in a malnourished commoner. Whatever it was, she appreciated the space and allowed her eyes to slip shut for a much-needed nap.

     Her second visitor was much more notable and came much later, undoubtedly after night had fallen, just as she swore she detected a phantom touch drift across her senses. She shook herself out of her nap and quickly sat up.

     “Good evening, Your Highness,” one of the men outside of her cell greeted, and both of them snapped into prim salutes when the Rivenspire king appeared in the dungeon.

     “Leave us for a moment. I need to speak to the prisoner.”

     “Of course, sire.”

     When he moved to stand before her cell door, the torchlight washed over his features, and it was obvious that the king was extremely tired. “Well met… Elyssa Gaering, was it, of Northsalt Village? I hope the stew found its way to you earlier.”

     “Yes,” she croaked before clearing her throat and repeating, “Yes, it did.”

     “I have no time to waste, so I will get straight to the point. I spoke to someone today who had a very interesting tale to tell about actions you may—or may not—have taken,” he began. “I say that because I was skeptical and, frankly, still am. Faced with you now strengthens that, even.”

 _Because I’m an innocent-looking young woman, and you find it difficult to believe that I could commit a crime based only on that._ It was a tired sentiment, variations of which well-used over her life by many different people. She hid a bitter smile behind her hand.

     “I don’t believe that you’re an accomplice to the disappearances, as this Cocher fellow insists, or that it has anything to do with the recent attempt on my life,” he explained, stifling a yawn into his fist. “Hmm, apologies. The missus is adamant that everything be perfect for her little gathering, and I’ve grown rather weary of it all.”

     “It is as you believe, sire. I have nothing to do with the disappearances and have been unjustly kidnapped from my home. So can I…” she trailed off, “…be released?”

     “Ah. Well, unfortunately… there just isn’t any proof either way. I’d like to believe that the battlereeve brought you here for a reason, and that’s why I intend to follow up on this once my schedule clears. For now, this is the only place I can house you,” he informed her with an apologetic shrug. “Once this damned social is over and done with, we can see about finding new accommodations for you. But, until then, I will provide a blanket and have warm food regularly brought down to you.”

     Her heart sank within her chest. She wanted to protest his decision, but she could see that King Alard was more than ready to retire for the night and had no patience for it. Furthermore, arguing with royalty was never considered a good idea, and she was well aware of her place within society. That kept her lips sealed, except to respond, “Thank you, my king. That is most gracious of you.”

     He nodded sleepily to her, wished her a pleasant evening, and turned on his heel to stride out of the dungeon. In his absence, the guards dutifully retook their positions outside of her cell.

     She waited as patiently as she could for both the blanket and the food to arrive, but they never did, as if she had been forgotten. It was a huge disappointment, but she accepted it and curled up on the bench to pass the time by resting. Sleep was fitful, as her stomach rumbled loudly and her body was wracked with shivers, but the one benefit was that she was never able to remain asleep long enough to be dragged to Coldharbour, the horrid frigidness of both the Oblivion plane and her master’s disposition making the dungeon seem like a hotbox in the Alik’r Desert. Yes, she very much accepted it.

     At some point in her restlessness, Elyssa’s guards disappeared—and were replaced with an extremely unexpected third visitor, the sight of whom had her shooting up to her feet and clenching her fists angrily at her sides. She rapidly blinked her blurry eyes, fighting against her exhaustion, and she gritted her teeth.

     Cocher, standing just outside of her cell, immediately threw his hands up in surrender and, before she could say anything, quickly uttered, “Listen to me, Breton. I know you despise me, but just listen to what I have to say. Please.”

     “Why should I?” she demanded. “ _You’re_ the reason I’ve had to be dragged across practically every town in the region, **in chains** , like a spectacle. _You’re_ the reason I’m sitting in this awful place. You would have everyone believe that I’m a Daedra worshiper—and that I’m responsible for kidnapping innocent people!”

     “I know. _I know_. But there are things you don’t know about why we... the Altmer and I… were here to begin with,” the Bosmer told her, wrapping his hands around the bars keeping them apart. His brow knit together, and he gazed at her earnestly. “We don’t have long. Will you hear me out?”

     “I suppose I don’t have any other choice. So, out with it. What don’t I know?”

     “The Altmer weren’t here to investigate the assassination attempt on your king,” he muttered conspiratorially. “In fact, it’s none of their concern. Kelkemmeriil’s priority was to find something—something that he believes rightfully belongs to all High Elves. The investigation was a ploy to allow him to search Rivenspire without supervision.”

     Elyssa stared at him skeptically and crossed her arms. “Is that so? Well, what exactly were you looking for?”

     Cocher shook his head helplessly. “To explain it in greater detail would take more time than we have. All I can tell you is that it’s a powerful sleeping relic that, according to him, belongs in Aldmeri. I found it within the Doomcrag that day we met, and it has long-since been shipped away to Vulkhel Guard. Anyway, I… I couldn’t leave with the regret that has been eating at me. I had to come down here.”

     She fully absorbed his words and glared at him. “That is just wonderful for you. You get your precious relic and can look forward to returning home to be honored as a hero, feeling as light as a feather, while I wait for the king to remember I’m down here through his haze of imported wine and party favors. You’re _despicable_ …”

     “I most certainly will **not** return as any sort of hero,” he dryly corrected her. “I’m not an archeologist as I claimed—that was a lie. I actually find history to be incredibly dull. Truthfully, I am known as a notorious criminal in Auridon. I’ve been imprisoned for longer than you’ve been alive for the things I’ve done.”

     Narrowing her eyes, she motioned for him to elaborate further, wringing an exasperated sigh from him.

     “It’s not important. I’m not trying to threaten or, rather, impress you, if you’re into that sort of thing. It’s merely a fact to shed some light on the convoluted situation. Simply put, as part of the terms of my release, I was to come here and assist in locating the relic. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time—nothing more. I was ordered to frame you,” he told her, resting his forehead against the bars and closing his eyes as he recounted it. “It was rushed and messy, but Kelkemmeriil and the others wanted to be on their way back to Aldmeri as soon as possible to oversee the relic. He arrested the first person he could weave into a false story and deliver to the hands of your king, allowing him to leave with minimal suspicion. That was you.”

     The young woman listened to him speak, her disbelief growing with every word. Could she really have been a cog in such a complex plot to steal from the Daggerfall Covenant? She grappled with her hate for Cocher, but her resolve wobbled in the face of such alarming information. She didn’t know what to think.

     “But I have no intention of returning to Auridon,” he added in her continued silence. “You’ve met that charming snake, the dear battlereeve. I will not chance him choosing to instead lock me away again for the rest of my life. I have been granted freedom, and I don’t intend to squander it.”

     Elyssa nodded once in understanding, still lost amongst her swimming thoughts.

     “ _But_ ,” he stressed, opening his eyes and gazing at her once again, “before I could clean my slate and go on with my new life, I needed to do this.”

     That caught her attention. She eyed him warily. “Do what, exactly?”

     “I’m not sorry for framing you,” he told her bluntly, bringing a ring of keys into her line of sight and shuffling through them. Separating one specific key from the bunch, he stuck it into the lock of her cell and turned it, opening the bars of iron that kept her imprisoned within the dismal dungeon. “…But, unlike your king, I won’t forget that you’re down here.”

     She could only stare, wide-eyed, not trusting her eyes. It wasn’t that simple. It _couldn’t_ be that simple. Surely this was a cruel machination of the God of Schemes, teasing her with freedom that would never be granted. Still, rubbing at her eyes didn’t change the scene at all, nor did discreetly pinching herself.

     Pushing the door wide open, Cocher beckoned her forward and explained in a rush, “Go upstairs to the royal bedroom. There is a window next to the bed that you can escape through. The trees and bushes outside will provide cover while you make your way to the sewer pipe behind the castle. I’ve already checked; no one is up there. It should be an easy getaway.”

     Her mouth dropped open in shock as the implication finally registered. Cocher, the heartless Bosmer who turned her in, had somehow crafted a way for her to escape from beneath the nose of the king. “… _What?_ ”

     “Don’t ask questions; just do it. Everyone is busy with the social, so you shan’t be noticed if you leave immediately. Now, do you want to be stuck down here, or do you want to take back your freedom?”

     “They—they won’t just let me go. I can’t return home while I’m under suspicion. What sort of innocent person runs away? That’s just asking for trouble!”

     “I don’t know. It’s all I can offer you. It’s your choice what you do with it, but I sincerely advise you to follow my lead and not squander it.” He dropped the keys at his feet and turned to leave. “Farewell, Breton. May our paths never cross again.”

     “ _Wait_ —”

     —But he was gone, leaving her to her mounting questions, pounding heart, and heavy indecision. She stared across the dungeon at the exit, through which her unexpected savior had disappeared, not noticing that her feet had taken her to the open cell door.

     Elyssa couldn’t simply escape; Cocher didn’t understand that it wasn’t that easy—or perhaps he did, should his tall tale be true. But, once anyone realized she was gone, they would hunt for her, and the first place they would look would be her hometown of Northsalt Village. Outside of that, anyone in the Covenant would be informed to watch out for her. She would be a guilty fugitive, and, should she inevitably be captured again, her judgment would be much harsher than what it would be now. The sensible thing to do would be to lock herself back in and pretend she never saw the Bosmer—to be a dutiful and law-abiding citizen of Rivenspire.

     Her fate here was uncertain, her rational mind pointed out. The king seemed distracted and disinterested in helping her, as evidenced by his neglect. She was hungry, fatigued, depressed, unwashed, and cold. She was lonely.

 _I’m the eternally condemned champion of Molag Bal,_ she thought.

     Did she really have a home to go back to anymore, what with her father missing and her mother’s ashes scattered to the wind? Could she ever go back to her old life as a simple alchemy merchant by day, counting every coin and rationing her dwindling food, and balance that with being a sexually abused toy for a Daedric prince by night? How long could she endure it—look her friends in the eyes and insist that she’s fine?

     The answer suddenly seemed simple, though it brought with it a painfully hollow ache.

     Elyssa moved across the dungeon to the door that led to the staircase, and she pushed it open, peeking outside. Initially, she saw nobody, but she silently watched for another minute, expecting someone to check on her. Nobody came for her, so she took a deep breath to steel herself and hurried up the stairs as Cocher had instructed her to do, climbing and climbing until she could ascend no more. Four flights of stairs spat her out into an empty office and yet another closed door before her.

     When she opened it, she nearly jumped out of her skin when someone called out, “ _There you are!_ ” It quickly became clear that it wasn’t directed at her; just beneath her, the high-energy social was taking place, and someone’s highly anticipated guest had arrived then.

     Yawning just before her was an open walkway that stretched across the expanse of the room, which a glance confirmed was a greatly spacious throne room. It was as if she were a part of the party, able to hear every word spoken. The laughter was uninhibited by stone walls, and the scent of food was mouthwatering and pungent. Thus, her steps were slow and careful, and she crouched low to keep herself out of the sight of anyone who might happen to glance up at the ceiling from the vicinity of the king and queen’s thrones, from which she would be clearly visible.

     “Who cooked this pig? It’s simply marvelous! The spices are superbly picked, and the flavor melts right over my tongue.”

     “Oh, _I know_. Isn’t it? Chef af-Karra is the royal cook for a reason. Did you know she studied at a culinary school in Orsinium? Believe it or not, the best chefs in Tamriel come from there!”

     “Orsinium? You would never guess— _er_ , not that there’s anything inferior with Orcs, of course! My apologies for that rude slip of the tongue. I certainly mean no offense, Chieftress Nuza gra-Lurgush.”

     “ ** _Hmph_**.”

     Elyssa slipped through the ajar entryway at the end of the walkway and let out a relieved sigh when she identified the room as what could only be the bedroom of the king and queen. She was thoroughly on edge, her senses frazzled; at any second, she expected to hear someone shout that she had escaped. The fact that nobody yet noticed was a miracle in itself, and she vaguely wondered what Cocher had done to her personal guards to grant her so much time to sneak away. Still, the fact that her jailors were absent didn’t guarantee that someone from the party wouldn’t come upstairs and discover her in the midst of her getaway, and that quickened her steps.

     The window next to the massive bed was beckoning her to open it, and so she moved toward it with purpose in her stride. She rounded the corner of the bed, her eyes locked on her prize.

     “Well, well, what do we have here—a sneaky little mouse scurrying about in the rafters?” a low, sultry female voice suddenly came from the shadows, startling the Breton back. “I almost didn’t notice you… except for this strange feeling that came over me at your nearness, and I had no choice but to investigate. You see, I sense that Lord Molag Bal almost _drips_ from you. I am rather envious, actually.”

     Elyssa watched, frozen, as a woman seemingly materialized from nothingness before her and sauntered forward with a subtle swing of her generous hips. There was nothing to be said of her features, for they were covered by a shimmery black veil wrapped around her head. But her features weren’t important at that moment; what was most pressing was the fact that the chains binding her to the Daedric Prince of Brutality could be sensed and identified.

     “Indulge me. What is the nature of your connection to him?” she prompted when the young Breton offered nothing. “And what brings you here, of all places?”

     “I… I’m his…” Elyssa found her voice, but the words were stuck; she would never feel comfortable speaking them aloud. But there was no point in denying it or lying. In barely a whisper, she uttered, “I am his champion.”

     “Truly?” The mysterious woman was speechless for a long moment. Only once the Breton gave a small, almost imperceptible nod did she delicately clear her throat and add, “And…?”

     “…And I was unjustly taken prisoner and brought here to await judgment for something in which I had no part.”

     “Really.” It wasn’t a question, and any of the cordiality in her voice abruptly dissolved away, nothing more than an act. She placed a gloved hand upon her hip and shifted her weight, the exaggerated motion followed by a spill of folds of luxurious crimson fabric. “That is the _only_ reason you’re here, supposed champion?”

     “Yes,” the Breton responded warily, growing suspicious of her words and flat tone, which spoke volumes of her incredulity. She took a step away from her, heeding the warning prickle on the back of her neck. She was forced back the way she came, as her path to the window was dishearteningly blocked by the woman’s body. “Why would you have reason to believe that there is any other reason for my presence here? If you’ll excuse my need to point out the obvious… I am garbed in a torn dress and, although I haven’t had the opportunity to see my reflection in some time, I know my hair and face aren’t faring much better. Looking this way, we both know I wouldn’t be here at this extravagant social otherwise.”

     “Mind your tongue,” she ordered icily, taking another step forward to close the distance the younger woman was trying to put between them. Her stance was rigid with growing anger. “Yes, I can see that you clearly do not belong here. _Do not_ insult my intelligence by completely missing my point.”

     “And which point is it that you’re trying to make?” Elyssa demanded, retreating with every advancement on her part. The Breton barely acknowledged the growing buzz of conversation and soft notes from the musicians drifting through the open doorway. “That I am here because a Daedric prince willed it? I already told you that I am not. I have no reason to lie to you—I don’t even _know_ you.”

     “Listen well: This is my territory, and I am in the midst of fulfilling an order given by Lord Molag Bal himself,” she hissed defensively. “You should not be here if you truly are who you say you are—which I **highly** doubt. You must be a pathetic underling aspiring to usurp my position because he would _never_ pick you as his champion. Really, what use could he possibly have for something worthless and filthy like you?”

     “ _What?_ I am not here to usurp you! I was brought here against my will, as I said, and I was attempting to escape when you showed up!” The Breton struggled to keep her voice low so she wouldn’t be detected, but she was frustrated. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that she had been backed out onto the open walkway. The walls were low at their sides, affording a brief view of the goings-on below and allowing the people gathered the opportunity to discover her. It was risky, but the alternative—allowing this hostile Daedra worshiper close enough to do something to her—seemed much worse at the moment.

     “Did you lay with him?” the woman whispered with a dangerous edge. “Is that why his aura is smeared all over you?”

     Elyssa faltered, and she reached out to grab at the wall when her knees wobbled. Her shame and humiliation washed over her hotly, and, over someone laughing uproariously, she vehemently denied, “O-of course not! No! Why would I _ever_ —”

     “ _Do **not** lie to me!_ ” It was an unrestrained yell dripping with jealous fury. “ _You laid with him!_ ”

     Before the young woman could even twitch a muscle, there was a blur of crimson and black, and she was pinned against the wall, teetering precariously over the edge. Gloved hands wrapped around her neck and squeezed in a punishing grip. The veiled face hovered over her, and cold breath fanned through the thin fabric and wafted over her. Gasping for the air she was denied, Elyssa grasped at the hands and desperately yanked at them so she could manage a single, short breath, before they tightened again. She barely noticed the party guests, who were pointing and shouting incomprehensible nonsense up at them.

     The guards were going to capture her if she didn’t get away quickly. This spike of panic sliced through everything else and demanded immediate attention. She had to do _something_. Either she would be strangled to death by a jealous cultist or rot in prison for the rest of her life. Both were unacceptable.

 _Do something!_ she ordered to herself. It was all she could do to bring her knee up and slam it into the woman’s abdomen as hard as she could. Following a quick, pained exhalation, the hands around her neck loosened somewhat, giving her the opportunity she needed—and she unthinkingly took it.

     With an unexpected surge of strength, Elyssa shoved the woman away with a short cry and stared, unmoving, as she wobbled backward on unsteady legs. Her lower back hit the wall, and her complicated dress wound around her legs. Unable to grab anything in time to catch herself, she tumbled over it. The shrill, unholy screech followed by a wet squelch was sickening, and it didn’t take long, especially due to the clamor of cries and screams that erupted instantaneously, to figure out what had happened. Nonetheless, the Breton surged forward to peer over the edge and behold the fate of her attacker.

     It hadn’t been too terribly long of a fall, and it might have been survivable with a mild concussion—but this was not the case.

     A stain of dark was rapidly blossoming around a gruesome puncture wound, out of which jutted several of the holders of an unfortunately placed, ornate silver candelabra, which was bolted securely to the ground. In place of the candles were mangled masses of bloody and blackened tissue, still attached to its owner by mere strings of gore. Rivulets of blood spilled down its gleaming length to puddle below her dangling, lifeless body.

     The grisly scene left the young Breton completely numb and breathless. Her pulse roared in her ears, and she clutched the wall in white-knuckled grips of her hands, barely able to keep herself from sinking to the ground. She could only stare in shock, going over the events that had led to this moment, and marvel at how quickly it had happened and fallen out of her control. There was an incessant ringing in her ears, which she slowly realized, as the world came crashing back down around her, was the cacophony of screams and anguished cries from the king’s guests.

     “That girl’s a murderer! She pushed Lady Benele to her death!”

     “Guards, seize her! Sentence her to the same fate!”

     She was slow to return to her body, slow to coax her limbs back into movement—slow to unclench her fingers from the rough stone. She had to push the event to the back of her mind and deal with it properly later.

     “Don’t let her get away! She will answer for this!”

     “By the Eight, catch her, _catch her!_ ”

     But she was already gone, using the confusion to her advantage and darting back into the bedroom and toward the window. She fumbled with the lock for several long and terrifying moments, her hands shaking wildly as she attempted to force it open. Finally, it clicked open, and the chilly air smacked her when the ornate glass-and-iron window swung open.

 _It’s already evening?_ It came as a shock how dark it had grown outside. She couldn’t see anything, and a moment of uncertainty gripped her when she couldn’t gauge the length of the drop that awaited her. It was a matter of trusting that someone who once betrayed her wasn’t trying to get her to jump to her own death, and she still harbored disgust for him.

     “Stop right there, murderer!”

     However, the truth was that she didn’t have a choice. Not allowing herself to delay the inevitable any longer, she threw herself out of the window, knocking clumsily into the frame and barely catching herself on the balcony perched below. Climbing over the low wall impeding her progress, she didn’t bother to glance down to see how far it was to the ground—not that she could see anything, as shadowy as it was. She merely sent a quick prayer to anyone listening, pushed her anxiety aside, and dropped.

     Her cry—more like a sharp exhalation than anything—was cut short as she landed almost immediately on an overgrown bush that had been neglected by the groundskeepers. The spiky branches caught on her hair and clothing and scraped against her uncovered skin, but she ignored it all and wrenched herself free.

     With one hand on the castle wall, using it as a guide, she made her way toward what she hoped was where Cocher said the sewer access pipe would be. She didn’t know how she would find it without a torch. Nonetheless, when the wall abruptly changed direction, ending in a corner, she pushed herself away from it and bumbled blindly across the unattended grass, which sprang up to her knees and attempted to trip her.

     Her next unsteady step landed her in a tight, gnarled mess of weeds, and she fell hard on her face, feeling a few hidden rocks stab into her knees and hands, which throbbed hotly with the abrupt impact. She bit down on her lip to stifle a curse and forced herself back to her feet. With her hands spread outward to catch herself, she continued to wander, yanking her feet out of every knot that was determined to capture her.

     Finally, she accidentally kicked something solid and paused, kneeling down to put her hands on whatever it was. She slid along its surface, feeling dips between bars stretching across a wide hole, and she realized it was the sewer entrance. Excited, she continued touching it until she found the edge, which she cupped her hands against and pushed at. Slowly, she was able to nudge the iron grate off, exerting herself until she had to stop to take a breath before resuming the draining process. Once it was uncovered just enough so she could squeeze herself through it, she carefully lowered herself through the narrow opening and placed her feet on the ladder that was waiting for her.

     At the bottom of the chasm, Elyssa landed with a wet splash and took a moment to reorient herself to her new surroundings, which were just as dark without any source of light to guide her way. Moreover, a foul scent hung heavy and sinister in the air, and it hit her hard when she took in the damp air. The sensation of impending vomit bubbled up, and, with a dry heave, she doubled over and clutched her stomach when it gave a dangerous flip. After a few moments of fighting it, she regained control and forced the urge back.

     As dark as it was, she could only find a wall and follow it, hoping the direction she chose would lead her to a semblance of safety. But, when her fingers touched the slimy wall, she recoiled initially, feeling the crustiness caked on it, followed by something slightly furry. The contrasting textures existing so close together mystified her, but she didn’t want to know what they belonged to. Instead, she gathered what was left of her resolve and trudged through the filth, which splashed up her legs despite her careful steps. Her skin crawled in disgust, and, every few moments, she stopped to retch violently into her fist, struggling to stifle the putrid odor permeating the air all around her. Stomach acid burned at the back of her throat despite her best efforts to keep it down. She had never been more repulsed in her life.

     Wading through the sludge was slow-going, and, as time passed, she slowly became accustomed to the stench of the sewer—but not to the ill feeling that hung over her when she unwittingly reminded herself of what sorts of things were clinging to her skin, clothing, and hair. She could only hope it would, in time, wash out, even if the memory of it would never truly leave her.

     On and on the passage extended, twisting and turning in a singular path, and she soon lost track of how much distance she covered. Her exhaustion and sore limbs were the only indications that she had most likely reached the outskirts of Shornhelm.

     There didn’t seem to be skeevers around, thankfully, so it was a small mercy that she didn’t have to worry about defending herself without a weapon. However, her boots were filled with muck and were almost sucked off her feet with every step, which was a tiresome weight. Her dress was wet and heavy, clinging to her skin and wrapping annoyingly around her legs. Her damp hair stuck to her face and tickled at her nose. All in all, it wasn’t something she ever wanted to experience again.

     When mindlessness set in, where she was simply placing one foot in front of the other in a mechanical fashion, at long last, the pipe abruptly came to an end. At that end was a slippery ladder, which she clutched and sagged against for a few moments, as overcome with her relief as she was. She placed a foot on the bottom rung and began to climb to the top, which, as her exploration identified, was impeded by a hinged manhole cover and its valve.

     To her dismay, the valve was severely rusted, and it was clear that it hadn’t been opened in a very long time. She slammed the palm of her hand against it to budge it, but it steadily resisted her attempts. In her panic, she struck it over and over again, dreading the thought that she was trapped. To have to retrace her steps after the long distance she had traveled and somehow find her way out of the sewer was a terrible notion, one that encouraged her to keep going, even though her palm was screaming in agony.

     “Open. Please _**open** ,_" Elyssa pleaded. She fought with the grimy handle for what seemed to be an eternity to her, letting out a loud sob, until she managed to find purchase on it and give it a mighty shove. In its disuse, the rusty hinge gave a shrill squeal and had to be worked open inch-by-grueling-inch, but her hard work was rewarded when it swung upward. She was finally able to take a deep, satisfying gulp of fresh air and heave herself out of the festering carcass of an underbelly that was Shornhelm’s sewer system. The stench of it lingered, as she was covered in wet filth, but it was manageable instead of completely overwhelming.

     A dry field stretched out around her, with nothing but grassy hills heralding the distant speck that was Shornhelm. With the rush of adrenaline withering away, the last few days hit her in their entirety. She was a murderer and a fugitive in her own home. Going back to Northsalt Village was completely out of the question—now and, to her creeping despair, perhaps forever. Her friends would hear about her despicable deed after it had been garbled by word-of-mouth hundreds of times over before she could ever humanly reach them.

     Not knowing exactly where she had come out but too exhausted to care, Elyssa flopped down into the grass and stared forlornly up at the night sky. Having suppressed it for the last few days, she allowed tears to leak from the corners of her half-lidded eyes.

     What was once an inspiration and a comfort now only mocked her. A woman died directly because of her own actions, and the stars continued to twinkle in their eternal, merry dance—as if nothing at all had changed. In truth, nothing would ever be the same. She clutched at her chest as her heart gave a painful throb at the thought.

 

> _End of Act I_  


	9. A New Beginning is Tainted by the Past

> _Act II: The Master, His Champions, and a Blade in the Night_  
> 
> _“You harbor delusional expectations; remarkably, you seem to liken me to one of your fellow humans. ‘ **How does his seed taste?’** you wonder, as you feast upon me as if I am one of the creamiest of pastries.”_
> 
> (This chapter contains an **explicit** description of **forced**   **oral sex**.)

_22nd Day of Frostfall_  

_“In time, my little champion, you will come to realize that each and every one of your coming steps has been carefully plotted…”_

     A layer of freshly fallen snow crunched underfoot as Elyssa ambled alongside her companion. Her slow puffs of breath were visible and hanging before her, and her uncovered bits of skin pinkened due to the frigid bite of wind whipping by. Once upon a time, she was young and careless and looked forward to the few inches of snow her home would receive partway through Frostfall. Now, the chill seeping through her thin clothing like an unwanted intruder only reminded her of her intimacy with Coldharbour and the awful memories that came with it. She wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed slightly, wracked with a violent bout of shivering.

     Glancing from the endless blanket of blinding white stretching across the distant rolling hills, she instead took in the sight of the elderly woman at her side—Morgyna, who was smiling at the frozen farmland with a faraway look in her eyes. Snowflakes disappeared amidst the silvery strands of her hair, and her breathing was slightly more ragged with each pass they took through the barren field. Elyssa opened her mouth to propose that they return to the house and build a fire.

     “Ellen, what do you think about starting a cornfield next year—huge stalks of corn as far as the eye can see?” Morgyna inquired before the younger woman could speak, breaking the comfortable silence between them. “I've always wanted to just wander through the rows and lose myself under the beautiful blue sky for a while.”

     “Well, that does sound nice, but I think you should speak with Edgar. He had very specific plans for the next harvest,” Elyssa responded dutifully, picking at the lingering scab on the back of her head when the farmer wasn't looking.

     The healing wound was the only remnant of her last days in Rivenspire, all of which had been filled with misery and terror. It wasn't that long ago, a week and a half at most, that she managed to flee her home region under the cover of darkness in a passing caravan headed for the neighboring province of Stormhaven. However, each passing day left deep impressions on her that were impossible to ignore—and each passing hour that her father remained a mere memory more so. Was it really still so recently that she became the plaything of the Lord of Domination? Her bones, skin, muscles— _everything_ —ached with decades of hurt and disappointment.

 

_“…And, although your feet may sink into the ground and leave traces of your presence in this world, I will lurk within your shadow to wipe them away—”_

 

     Long past were the days when her most important decision for the day was whether to gather mountain flowers or pick columbine, that her most pressing concern was how she would clean the grass stains from the front of her dress. She recalled those moments with detachment; it all seemed pointless and needlessly silly now. These days, survival was all that she had the capacity to care about. Finding small things to feel positive about in her crushing void of despair was paramount, and thoughts of the things she had lost were detrimental to her progress.

     “ _Hmph_ , he never lets me get creative with the field. I'm tired of being stuck in the garden,” the older woman muttered. A playful smile, heavily wrinkled at the corners, stretched her mouth despite the reproachful words. “Oh, don't look so serious. I was only joking… partially.”

     When the young Breton first arrived at the Woodsley Farm, she had been covered in dried sewage, as well as scrapes and bruises. The elderly woman took pity on her in her filthy, impoverished state and agreed to let her stay, provided she help with the chores. It was a more-than-reasonable offer, and she gratefully accepted it. The prospects of food, a warm bed, and a long bath were too tempting to pass up, and she had nowhere else to go.

 

_“—because you are insignificant. You are **pointless** , a mere stepping stone to something greater.”_

 

     At first, she only planned to stay for a few days in order to recuperate and regroup, but she found the farmer to be charming and friendly, although, in her advanced age, Morgyna frequently forgot small things or seemed a bit lost in her own world. She was the kind of simple person Elyssa yearned to have in her chaotic life, which came with an ever-growing list of dangers and enemies.

     However, as sweet and hospitable as Morgyna was toward her, Elyssa had done nothing more than lie to her again and again. The elder Breton was under the impression that her family had been attacked by bandits, with both her Breton mother and Nord father killed in the process. The fabricated tale allowed her to adopt a false foreign name taken from one of her storybooks back home, with the hope that she wouldn't be traced back to the murderer she was known as, especially when the King’s Guard realized she wasn't in Northsalt Village—or anywhere close to it.

     After all, in a mountainous, craggy region like Rivenspire, with all its natural barriers, there were few exits, and it wouldn't be long until they moved their search to Stormhaven.

 

_“So walk…”_

 

     Elyssa was becoming too comfortable at the little farm. It was a dangerous thing, and she was putting herself and the kindly woman at a huge risk the longer she remained there. But it was exceedingly difficult to muster the motivation to move on, even when reminding herself of this dire fact. She was growing far more attached than she had anticipated.

     “Cheer up, my dear. You always look so unhappy,” Morgyna urged gently, hooking a finger under the younger Breton’s chin and lifting her face. “How about I convince Edgar to purchase some imported cane sugar the next time he’s in Wayrest? That way, I can make some of my delicious orange sugar cakes for you. It’s a closely guarded Woodsley recipe, created purely to bring happiness.”

     A sad smile tugged at the corners of her lips. At first, she was curious about this Edgar, the mysterious husband figure who seemingly never returned home—or, at least, she never saw him return. It quickly became obvious that Morgyna perceived her husband as more than what he was: a figment crafted from her own imagination. The discovery tugged painfully at Elyssa’s heart. Did this man once exist, long-since cremated and scattered to the winds by his wife who survived him, or was it simply a coping method for a lonely farmer who wasn’t always completely lucid? She wasn’t certain of the answer, and it wasn’t her place to try to heartlessly rip her companion from her fantasy. Instead, she found herself nodding lightly in agreement.

 

 _“…Walk blissfully the path to your impending demise.”_  

* * *

     Life as a farmer seemed like a demanding lifestyle, one that would require her attention from morning until night—leaving her exhausted but satisfied long after the sun had set. However, until the ground thawed, there wasn’t much to be done outside. Inside the farmhouse, she found herself making both of their beds, noting that Morgyna seemed to take a few extra moments to rise every morning. She wiped the dust from the family portraits hanging on the walls while she admired the carefully painted faces gazing solemnly back from the canvases. She swept the floors while waiting for a large pan of snow to melt over a blazing fire. She fed the few animals nesting in the barn while her elderly companion prepared dinner, consisting of three portions in case Edgar came in early. The two of them shared stories while Elyssa cleaned the dishes with handfuls of snow.

     Over the course of her stay, the young Breton quickly took over the bulk of the chores so Morgyna could rest her aching joints— _“The cold really flares them up, but even that won’t stop me from enjoying the winter months.”_ With only two people occupying the house, there weren’t many tasks to fill out the day, and there were only so many times she could organize the bookcase or empty the chamber pots.

     Dinner came sooner every evening as the elder Breton’s strength failed her, leaving Elyssa with nothing to do but retire early. Watching as her companion struggled against her own waning health reminded her too much of her mother’s final days, and so she slept more to escape the depression that threatened to creep in. It was unbearable, but how could she leave, knowing Morgyna would be completely alone when her time finally came?

     One and a half weeks slipped into two, nearing three, and they were in need of food. Elyssa learned that there was a trading post not too far away, about ten minutes of walking distance one-way, and that was where she went to replenish their basic supplies. However, being nervous about being in public where she could be identified, before she left, she wrapped her hair up in a large strip of cloth.

     Had news of her awful deed reached this far yet? The answer came to her almost as quickly as the trading post tents popped up over the snow-capped hill.

_“Lady Adeline Benele—you know of her, do you not? She was visiting Queen Ysara of Rivenspire for her prestigious gala some weeks ago.”_

_“Er… Wait, who is she? Is she of any relation to the infamous mage sisters?”_

_“I was hoping you knew. I’m not entirely sure about her family origins. But—the fact of the matter is that she discovered that someone at the gala slept with her fiancé, and then she was immediately murdered by the one who did it! I could hardly believe it when Rodyrick brought the news with him.”_

_“You must be joking! Does this trollop really think he’ll want a murderer? …Oh! Uh, Rodyrick is here? **Seren**! You could have mentioned that sooner!”_

     The whispers were unbearable and so ridiculously far from the truth. She wanted to yell at them, to correct them just so they wouldn’t remain so blatantly ignorant of the facts—which, admittedly, were infinitely more outrageous than the rumors. It wasn’t as if she could tell them that, although, yes, she had unwillingly slept with the “fiancé” in question on multiple occasions, any semblance of impending marriage between the victim and him was highly doubtful. And to admit that a Daedric prince was the focal point of the supposed infidelity would sound more like a terrible joke. No, she could only listen, numb and miserable, forced to endure them chipping away at what little remained of her once-nonexistent reputation.

_I’m no longer a poor merchant’s daughter. I’m now apparently a homewrecking, murdering whore._

     Once she had a bundle of dried meat, fruit, and herbs under her arm, she fled as subtly as she could back to the privacy of the Woodsley Farm. Try as she might, she couldn’t wipe the sadness from her expression when she stepped into the warmth of the farmhouse.

     “What has happened, Ellen?” Morgyna, wrapped in furs, croaked from her armchair next to the fireplace.

     “They didn’t have the Daenian pork you wanted,” she was quick to lie.

     “Oh, don’t let it trouble you, darling. That’s no reason to take away the smile from your face.” She trembled violently as she attempted to lift herself from the chair. “Let’s make dinner. I can’t wait to try those new tea leaves.”

     “Please don’t strain yourself. I’ll see to it.”

     As she grappled with her conflicted feelings during the day, nighttime brought the renewed stress of Coldharbour with it. Molag Bal seemed indifferent to her presence and yet remained elusive, which was perfectly acceptable to her. Seemingly unsupervised, she pushed herself to reach the mysterious jewel of a city at the heart of the dark realm. It was difficult, as she didn’t have a map, and everything looked the same wherever she went. Moreover, when she laid her head down for sleep the following night, she appeared in a different location than the last time, making it impossible to memorize a path that would take her past the gaping chasms and mountainous spikes while avoiding the numerous, terrifying denizens of Oblivion.

     But her perseverance rewarded her; the opportunity to sate her curiosity eventually presented itself. The grand city was finally within her reach, calling out to her with each soothing pulse of light. All she had to do was let her feet take her across the bridge to its outer walls, which were eternally gateless, as if to welcome any weary traveler within at any time. Golden light spilled out, caressing the tiny, spidery cracks in the gleaming ivory stone. Pink petals and green leaves painted a glorious image that was barely visible from where the Breton stood, which only encouraged her to drift closer to take in the splendor fully. She was unable to resist its call.

     The young Breton took a step forward, then another, slowly nearing the mysterious city—but the very next step was met with a sickened, shocked lurch in her stomach when the expected stone beneath her was ripped away. There was nothing solid to catch her footfall, and she dropped through the ground in an instant, swallowed up by the darkness below. Her screams caught in her throat, and her body tensed at the impact that was undoubtedly awaiting her at the end of her abrupt descent. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, which she tightly squeezed shut.

     When Elyssa finally met with the ground, it was jarring and painful, leaving her in a heap of limbs and blinding agony. But she would survive, of course, since it wasn’t her physical body that had fallen. Once the initial shock wore off, she became aware of a warning prickle on the back of her neck, and she lifted her head to see where she landed.

     Just before her, Molag Bal was reclined on an ornate throne, the design of which cradled him in a swath of spikes, and he eyed her fallen form with his usual unreadable expression. Then she quickly became aware, much to her unease, that the two of them weren’t alone; several Daedra were positioned along the walls of the colossal room, seated at long tables adorned with books and scrolls. The dark creatures didn’t even glance up at her unceremonious entry, too immersed in their quiet conversations in what she could only assume was the Daedric tongue. It was a foreign, pleasing dialect, but she didn’t have the capacity to admire it while there were more pressing issues staring her down.

     Elyssa licked her dry lips and muttered a quick, “Master,” in acknowledgement to the Lord of Domination. She didn’t bother to move herself from her kneeling position, knowing the Daedric prince expected her to bow to him.

     “Champion,” he intoned, dropping his icy gaze from her cowering form to the enormous tome laying open on his lap. “Since last we spoke, certain unexpected events have occurred. No longer can I allow them to pass unaddressed.”

     She glanced up at him briefly before dipping her head once again. “The woman I… I murdered,” she guessed. Her ears perked anxiously at the sounds of crinkling paper and faint murmurs all around her.

     Molag Bal didn’t say anything right away; he took a few silent moments to read from his book. When he snapped it shut, it dissipated in his hand, leaving him free to shift his position atop the iron throne. “It was a setback,” he agreed, crossing his arms over his chest, “but already had she served her purpose. Thus, I had no further use for her.”

     It was a careless comment, one that made her pity the veiled woman, who seemed to have harbored feelings for their cruel master. She found herself curious about what sort of orders this Lady Adeline Benele had been given that assigned her to a royal party, and she tentatively questioned, “What was her purpose?”

     “As an established noble and a Daughter of Coldharbour, she was invaluable for the sole purpose of gaining entry to the gathering. She was to strategically and subtly spread her affliction so it would be taken back with various chosen targets. The two of you colliding was unforeseen, as she chose to disobey me to investigate your presence within the castle.”

     The brief explanation left her question mostly unanswered, and she mulled over his curious phrasing in her mind. She had heard it somewhere before but couldn’t recall its exact meaning.

     “I bestowed upon her the gift of what you mortals refer to as ‘vampirism,’” he explained, sensing her confusion. “Vampires are more susceptible to heeding my summons.”

     It didn’t completely surprise her that Adeline had been a vampire, considering the level of her devotion to the Father of Vampirism. But the reminder did give her pause; she sincerely hoped that he never decided she would be more useful to him as one of his undead servants. It was a despicable state of being, one that was shunned by nearly all living beings. Just considering drinking nothing but blood put an ill feeling in her stomach. Something like that, on top of being his champion, would only serve to make her life even more unbearable. She neither needed nor wanted it.

     “The afflicted have returned to their families and will begin to show symptoms,” he continued. “Alarmed, they will ultimately turn to their maker—the only one who will not shun them. On the contrary, I will grant them clarity and purpose, and this is what I gave to the Daughter of Coldharbour whom you encountered.”

     Elyssa absorbed the new information uneasily. She couldn’t imagine what he was plotting, but his near-success at melding his realm with that of the mortals’ suggested that it was something terrible and threatening. It wasn’t something she wanted to think about, so she pushed it from her mind to instead mumble, “Did you ravage her, as well?”

     Molag Bal hummed lowly. “Even after our ritual was completed, she willingly offered herself to me… several times during multiple occasions. If you recall, little one, I do not deny a devoted follower, should she so sweetly beg of me.”

     Elyssa flushed darkly at his suggestive words.

     “But that is beside the point. I was displeased that you decided to slaughter one of my servants without my explicit direction.”

     “…It was _entirely_ _accidental_. She attacked—”

     “—And now that you are being pursued, I am forced to expedite my plans for you. That is why I have brought you here.” He drummed a nail against the armrest of his throne with a quiet, insistent clicking. “Although, your recent explorations of my realm are unacceptable, which is why I have chosen this exact moment in which to speak to you. I would advise you to promptly smother your curiosity, lest I am enticed to punish you. There is nothing for you _there_.”

     The tempting image of the forbidden city of light—she longed to piece together its secrets and discover why such beauty could exist within Molag Bal’s plane of Oblivion. The fact that he didn’t want her anywhere near it only served to further intensify her interest, but, at the same time, she didn’t want to encourage any form of punishment. Instead, she bowed her head and responded subserviently, “Yes, Master.”

     “Now, come,” he ordered abruptly, beckoning her forward with the crook of his fingers. “Crawl to me on your hands and knees, my servant. Let us _play_.”

     Reluctantly, she shifted herself forward into the position in which he wanted her, dropping her head as she did. Her battered body burned anew with the lingering damage of her fall, but she ignored it and bit down on her lip. Across the cold floor she crawled, degraded, nearing the deity’s stifling presence. All the while, she gathered the attention of the assembled Daedra, whose judging stares pierced her, and she grew faint from the embarrassed heat growing within her body.

 _Why must they be here to watch?_ she thought miserably, though she already knew the answer; everything the Lord of Brutality did was to compound her suffering for his own pleasure. At the Daedric prince’s horned feet, she sat back with her feet tucked under her backside.

     Molag Bal reached down and shifted his loincloth aside to expose himself. He wrapped a hand around himself and idly stroked along the impressive shaft a few times, skimming his palm against the head with each pass. “Closer. Open your mouth and receive me, champion.”

     The licentious command had her reeling with mortification and horror. Never had she even considered doing such a thing, and the thought of it brought a telltale heat to her face. “It—it won’t fit,” she protested with audible panic. She made to shift back on her hands and scoot away. “There is simply no way I can—no way I would **ever** — _mmh…_ ”

     The deity, impatient with her frantic babbling, had surged forward and shoved two of his wickedly long fingers into her mouth in order to silence her. He curled them against her bottom row of teeth and yanked at her jaw to force her mouth wide open for him. “I disagree.”

     Elyssa was dragged forward between the deity’s spread thighs. Her vision was impeded by his bulging cock, which was pressed tightly to her cheek. When the fingers were removed from her mouth, in their stead, the hard appendage was guided to her lips, which parted around it with a small wet noise. She halted its progress with her firmly closed teeth. His girth had her lips stretched as far as they could manage, and she knew her jaw was going to suffer.

     “Bite me, if you so wish, but your teeth will crumble into dust. Your effort will be wasted, for I will not feel it,” he informed her airily. “And resist me, if you so dare. I can be a patient master, but I have my limits.”

     Elyssa hesitated for as long as she dared to before skittishly placing her hands atop his thighs for leverage. She shifted her weight from her bare knees, which throbbed painfully on the cold stone floor. With a fierce blush, she opened her mouth wide for him and fought against the inkling of panic that gripped her when he slid inside.

     He was _too_ _big_. As inch-by-inch invaded her, slowly sliding along her tongue, she worried that her jaw was going to detach in the process. However, she only managed to swallow half of Molag Bal’s thick cock before her gag reflex made itself known and forced her to expel him and rip away. Coughing lightly into her fist, she peeked up at her stoic master, gauging his reaction.

     The wordless stare he cut her with was more than enough to encourage her to drift back to her previous position once she caught her breath. Inadvertently, she took in the lewd sight of him; he was obscenely slick with her saliva, and it trickled down his shaft and pooled over his angular pelvis. Gingerly, she sank down onto him, curling her tongue against the underside of his hard flesh as she worked her jaw against the ache that was settling in. She took in a few quick breaths through her nose to calm herself.

     She processed more than just her own apprehension with the act while she adjusted to the size of him. Namely, she noticed, as he completely dominated her taste buds, that he tasted faintly like a tangy metal—like _blood_. Was it her own blood she was tasting, or was it the blood of the countless other people he had raped in his existence? Would his seed taste equally vile or worse? Would it burn her? Her mind buzzed with unanswered questions as she delicately started to suck him.

     Molag Bal hummed deep in his throat, but it became clear that it was more contemplative than anything when he uttered, “You harbor delusional expectations; remarkably, you seem to liken me to one of your fellow humans. ‘ _How does his seed taste?_ ’ you wonder, as you feast upon me as if I am one of the creamiest of pastries.”

     Elyssa squeezed her eyes shut when she heard the spectating Daedra cruelly jeer at her expense. As quietly as she tried, she couldn’t completely suppress the wet little slurps that accompanied her motions. After a moment, she had to pull back for a brief reprieve, and, self-conscious, she quickly wiped away the string of saliva that connected them.

     “You will be disappointed to learn that I have no seed,” he informed her, watching as she tilted her head downwards to flick her tongue over the head of his cock. “But that is not to say I am unable to produce a worthy substitute. Tell me, little one, do you wish to taste my ‘seed’?”

     “No, Master,” she muttered before taking him back into the hot warmth of her mouth. She gagged when he suddenly pushed on the back of her head, forcing her to take several more inches than what she was comfortable with. She unwittingly dug her nails into his flesh, straining back against his immoveable hand, with no success. She was held there, her throat fluttering desperately around him as her heart jumped painfully in her chest. It was all she could do to contain the urge to vomit and take steadying breaths from her nose.

     When he finally released her, in his wake, he left a trail of fluid across the length of her tongue that she was forced to swallow. The taste was subtle, something she was unable to compare to anything she had ever experienced, but she knew she didn’t enjoy how bitter it was.

     Molag Bal’s cock popped out of her mouth, and he took it in-hand to trace her swollen lips with it, messily smearing more of the clear fluid over her skin. “Do you desire more?”

 _No_ , she almost began to whimper, but she quickly bit down on her treacherous tongue. Wisely, she decided to change her answer and instead responded, “…Yes, Master.”

     He knew she was lying; nothing escaped his notice, especially when it came to the intimate relationship he had with the young Breton kneeling between his legs. Even if he couldn’t read every thought in her mind, for a master of deception such as himself, it was nothing to read into her body language and the small cracks in her expression that betrayed her disgust and misery. He found it delicious, and it quickly shoved him closer and closer to his climax.

     Her motions began to slow when the ache in her jaw became more pronounced and impossible to ignore. She needed to rest, but Molag Bal wouldn’t allow it. Elyssa felt him grab ahold of her head and dig his claws into her scalp, guiding her to take him deeply into her throat and then release him, each time with more force and insistence, leaving gratuitous saliva coating his shaft. The slick noises that came from it were lewd and horrifying to the young woman.

     It was obvious when he came, as this time it was accompanied with a flood of bitter seed that she was forced to swallow. It squirted across her taste buds with each clench of his muscles, threatening to spill out with how much of it was emptied into her mouth. She was hyper-aware of how he twitched the slightest bit when the last of it finally dribbled out, and she drooped, feeling drained—relieved that it was over. Although it wasn't nearly as painful as their last two intimacies, the shame from performing it weighed just as heavily over her, especially knowing that so many had been witnesses. The taste of his imitation seed lingered in her senses though she had already obediently taken everything he had to offer.

     Elyssa uttered a small, muffled cry of pain and pulled away from him. Something had stabbed into her tongue—a single bloody thorn that she spotted protruding from his shaft. She felt the tickle of blood welling in her mouth from the small cut, and it leaked out and stained her chin.

     Molag Bal grasped her by the hair and yanked her head up toward his own, urging her to climb onto his lap. His tongue slithered out, long and thin like that of a serpent, and flicked along the trail of crimson. He followed the curve of her chin, up to her lips, which were agape in shock. The appendage slid across them, lapping at the wet skin, before dipping inside.

     His tongue slipped along hers, curling and writhing—tasting the sharp metallic of blood. Meanwhile, one of his hands crept along her thinly clothed body and cupped a breast, roughly raking a finger across her nipple until it hardened. Squeezing and kneading the tender flesh, he drew flinches of pain from her. He invaded her mouth and body, squashing her thighs closed around his cock so he could languidly thrust against her. She was close enough to share his icy breath.

     “I have begun to realize…” he began in a drawl once he retracted his tongue from her thoroughly ravaged mouth. When he released her abused breast, he instead wound a sizeable lock of her hair around his finger. “…That perhaps you are not as expendable as I once deemed. You, my servant, are completely and utterly pointless—and that is your strength. Thus, I am willing to grant to you a chance to prove yourself.”

     Elyssa hadn’t been able to look anywhere but at his eyes, alight with blue, due to her extreme nearness. Holding her breath, she could only give a terrified blink of acknowledgment.

     “My task for you is this: Find your way to the Nordic village known as ‘Windhelm,’” he ordered. “During your travels, you will encounter a shrine devoted to me, and you will be compelled to answer its summons. Obey… and you will be handsomely rewarded.”

     “…And if I disobey?” she whispered. As she peeked up at her master, she vaguely recalled a map of Tamriel tucked away in her bookcase back home. Journeying far across the mountains to the Nord territories required a lengthy journey by ship, something she had never done before. It was daunting, to say the least, and she began to puzzle over how she was going to manage to arrive there without coin and with a wanted status hanging over her.

     His nostrils flared in annoyance, chilling her skin with a puff of his breath. “Dare you to disobey? **Do** **not** toy with me; you are aware that is not an option.”

     “And… and what is waiting for me in Windhelm?”

     He released her and leaned back in his throne, leaving her to awkwardly perch on his nude lap with a steadying hand on his thigh. “Let us say… a _life_ - _changing_ _opportunity_.”

     The Breton didn't enjoy the sound of that. With him, there was always an undercurrent of scheming. She took the words as they were truly meant—something terrible was awaiting her in Windhelm. But her only choice was to obey, to knowingly wander into her waiting torment.

     “Oh…” he added thoughtfully, “and I would not want for you to be distracted. As you depart the farm, raze it and its pitiful caretaker into the ground.”


	10. An Admirable Gesture Paves the Way to Despair

> In that moment, Morgyna wasn’t a deathly ill widow pathetically confined to her bed; she was an experienced woman with a wealth of cherished memories to carry her straight into a peaceful and well-deserved afterlife. And at her side, holding her hand and sharing in the warmth of those treasured snippets of time, was a Daedric prince’s champion—murderer, fugitive, and aspiring professional liar.

_1st Day of Sun's Dusk_

     Out behind the farmhouse, hunched below the powdery sheets of snowflakes and flecks of ice, Elyssa scrubbed at the inside of her borrowed chamber pot with a ratty piece of cloth, cringing as the dried chunks of vomit slowly broke away from the metal under her determined ministrations. Her stomach was reeling and churning at the distasteful task; to her, the process of cleaning away her own mess was just as painful as producing it. Her breathing was labored from both the exertion and the effort of containing herself from making it worse.

     The previous night, shortly after her most recent licentious encounter with her master, she had abruptly awoken to a telltale burning at the back of her throat—the urge to vomit—and the nearest object to most appropriately empty the contents of her stomach into had been her chamber pot near the foot of her bed.

     She wasn’t sure where the sensation had come from; rarely did she vomit, unless she was suffering from an illness. As she wasn’t currently ailed with anything, she concluded it had to be related to stress. She was haunted by the expectation hovering over her like a dark cloud—that of razing the farmhouse to the ground and murdering its elderly owner—and she could feel Molag Bal’s judgment bearing down on her every second she avoided the inevitable.

     It was unthinkable. How could she ever do something like that, not only to someone who had been so kind to her, but _at all?_ She wasn’t a destructive or violent person and wouldn't have considered doing it even to her worst enemy. It was obvious that Molag Bal knew she would struggle to go through with his terrible order; it was all part of his dark sense of humor. But his amusement wouldn’t last, she knew, and she was horrified to once again find herself smothered by a sick deadline of the Lord of Brutality’s creation.

     From sacrificing an unsuspecting soul into eternal servitude to heartlessly murdering an elderly woman who was clearly bobbing her head to the piper’s seductive calling—what would be asked of her next time? What sort of intensity of evil would she possibly reach when forced to sow her master’s infinitely cruel will? Would she even have the ability to refuse if it became too much to bear?

     Somehow, she managed to wipe the despair from her cold-pinkened features, just as she cleared the last of the mess away—as much as could be expected. With a heavy heart, she heaved the pot into her arms and carefully carried it around to the front of the farmhouse, where, through impressive maneuvering, she managed to prop it against the wooden wall while simultaneously opening the door. The instant she stepped over the threshold back into the toasty warmth, followed by wintry slush, she heard Morgyna’s voice sounding faintly from her bedroom.

_“Ellen, could you please come here?”_

     “Yes, I will be there in a moment,” she called back, returning the chamber pot to her room. Unburdened, she rubbed her grimy hands on the front of her dress and entered the elder Breton’s bedroom, where she found her staring wistfully at the wall adjacent to her, which housed a few shelves of trinkets and baubles.

     Morgyna appeared unusually tiny and frail beneath her furs and quilts, nestled into various soft pillows and doused in flickering shadows. She was clutching the blankets to her chin and trembling slightly, even though the room was comfortably warm.

     There was no hesitation on Elyssa’s part; immediately at the other woman’s side, she took one of her wrinkled hands between her own and pressed it. She gazed unblinkingly at her face, searching it with an earnest gaze. “Tell me what you need.”

     “Could you bring something to me?” Morgyna began softly, turning her glassy, half-lidded eyes toward the younger woman. “There’s a small silver chest next to the bookcase. I recall that you’ve dusted it a few times. Inside, near the top, there should be a painting. That’s all I want.”

     “Of course.” With that, she followed the directions and easily located the dusty chest. Dropping to her knees in front of it, Elyssa lifted the lid. She sifted through the contents, easing her way through stacks of old journals and letters and other various keepsakes. The desired painting was face-down when she found it, and, as she took it out, she was distracted by a glint of metal just beneath it. Curiously, she set the painting aside and reached for whatever it was that had caught her attention.

     It was a blade, sharpened and fine, similar to one her father had owned for cutting hair and shaving. She turned it over in her hands, considering its weight. There were initials carved into its gleaming surface— _A.W._ After she finished her brief inspection, something possessed her to slip it into the pocket on the front of her dress. Retrieving the painting, she closed the chest and stood, brushing her knees.

     Returning to the bedroom, she knelt beside the bed and turned the canvas around for the both of them to look at. Her eyes darted over the rough texture of the brush strokes, appraising the hues and the scene depicted.

     The painting was of a man and woman, stoically posing like all other Woodsleys she had seen adorning the walls of the farmhouse. They were dressed in plain garments of earthy tones, and behind them was the farm, alight with every color imaginable in full bloom. There was no question that the youthful woman at the side of a slightly older man was Morgyna.

     “Oh…” the elder Breton murmured longingly, memorizing the tiny painted features, with nostalgia softening the deep lines of her face. In that moment, Morgyna wasn’t a deathly ill widow pathetically confined to her bed; she was an experienced woman with a wealth of cherished memories to carry her straight into a peaceful and well-deserved afterlife. And at her side, holding her hand and sharing in the warmth of those treasured snippets of time, was a Daedric prince’s champion—murderer, fugitive, and aspiring professional liar.

     “That’s Edgar?” Elyssa inquired softly. “Please tell me something about the two of you.”

     “Let’s see what this old mind can recall…” She paused for a long moment, clearly seeing more than what the painting depicted as a smile quirked her lips. Her eyes sparkled in remembrance. “Ah, I believe we first met in Wayrest during a harvest celebration what must have been an era ago. Since the crops were especially bountiful that year, everyone within walking distance of the city decided to prepare specialty dishes and drinks with what was left over and share them with each other. My family brought this amazing glazed cornbread.”

     Elyssa waited patiently as Morgyna interrupted herself by coughing raggedly into her sleeve.

     “Edgar—that is, the Woodsley family—brought their orange sugar cakes, of course, and a cousin of theirs contributed pumpkin-spiced mead he had been aging for about half a year. The cousin was some Whiterun fellow, if I'm remembering correctly. Came to help them around the farm because one of their farmhands fell ill with something nasty. I don’t remember the exact details, I’m afraid.”

     “A town near my home used to have fish festivals,” Elyssa interjected wistfully, gently easing her back to the subject. “They were so much fun.”

     “Oh, yes, it was the highlight of the year. Yes… yes, certainly. And it wasn't only the food; the music never stopped until late into the night, until every last person had stopped dancing.”

     “And what of Edgar?”

     “There isn’t much to tell about him during that day,” she admitted. “Edgar was one of the musicians, a fine flute player. While he was busy providing the music, I was busy sampling every dish and dancing. It wasn't the best combination, I'll admit. I acquired a terrible cramp early into the evening.”

     “Did you know him before the celebration?”

     “I knew _of_ him, in a neighborly way. The only words I remember him speaking to me all night were, ‘Try this. It'll **really** leave an impression.’” Then she added quickly, “His cousin's mead. We Bretons were wary to try something so strong, you see. But, between performances, he was passing it around to anyone brave enough to indulge.”

     “You wanted to impress him,” Elyssa guessed slyly, “because you liked him?”

     Morgyna laughed. “Actually, I had a disagreement with my mother the day before, and I knew it would infuriate her. I’m sorry to disappoint you, darling, but he was as attractive as a stonechewer goblin to me back then. It was not love-at-first-glance by any means.”

     “Fair enough. So, what happened after you tried the mead?”

     “I tried it again… and again. His cousin complimented me on my hidden ‘Nord’ qualities,” she trailed off fondly. “Then I drunkenly danced my way right into jamming my right middle finger on the edge of a table. Or, at least, that's what I was told.”

     “Ouch.” The younger woman winced in sympathy.

     “Edgar was the one who suggested that he pull on it ‘to put it back into place.’ In a way, I’m thankful for the mead because I'm certain it was extremely painful, but it probably wouldn’t have happened if I refrained from indulging.” She flexed the aforementioned finger slightly, musing, “It never did bend quite right after that. He's lucky I grew to like him so much when he came back to check on me—and to tease me for my display that night.”

     “I'm sure you both enjoyed a lot of laughter together,” Elyssa murmured. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

     “Absolutely.” Fatigued by the conversation, the elder Breton took in a small, wheezing breath. “But I am the one who owes you gratitude for all you’ve done for me, Ellen.”

     “It was nothing,” she responded honestly. The continued use of the fake name, however, was a terrible prod in her heart each time. It wasn’t right of her to encourage the farce while Morgyna shared so much with her. “I’m happy to care for you. I only wish I could do more.”

     “Oh, you have done plenty, my sweet girl. But there is something more I must ask of you—I ask you to accept a gift.” Morgyna glanced at the nightstand, lifting her chin slightly, wordlessly motioning for her to open it.

     She pulled the drawer open and found a small leather pouch, which rattled all too suspiciously when she brought it out. Moreover, it was heavier than she expected something of its size to be. Pulling it open, she wasn’t surprised to find it overflowing with shiny coins. She stared at it for a few silent seconds before shaking her head. “I'm sorry, but I cannot.”

     “Please, you must,” she croaked. “I want you to have it.”

     “I have done nothing to deserve this,” Elyssa insisted unhappily, briefly bowing her head over the pouch. “You should keep it.”

     Morgyna smiled wearily at her. “You will surely need it more than I.”

     With heavy reluctance, the young woman pocketed the pouch, dropping it beside the blade. Accepting the gift made her insides squirm with discontentment, but there were only so many times she could shake her head and decline. She figured she could find a way to discreetly return it later that evening, during which time Morgyna would certainly be asleep. It would be an incredibly rude gesture on her part, but how could she feel comfortable accepting what quite possibly could be all the coin the farmer had to her name?

     Back in the living area, as she was putting the painting back where she had found it, face-down, she spotted something discreet scrawled in the corner of the canvas. Bringing it closer to her face, she squinted at the tiny writing. _‘Alabastyr and Morgyna Woodsley,’_ it read, and she furrowed her brow, puzzled. Deciding it was the other woman’s business, she lightly shook her head and closed it away inside the silver chest. Once again, she returned to the bedroom and hovered at Morgyna’s bedside.

     “Shall I make some tea?” Elyssa suggested. “We still have some of the jasmine you enjoy so.”

     “No, thank you, darling,” she murmured in response, her voice a mere whisper. She turned away from the light spilling in from the open doorway and the lit candlestick on her nightstand. “There will be no need for supper, either.”

     The young woman frowned at that. “No?”

     “I’m… not very hungry.”

     Elyssa gazed at her with concern, watching as she closed her eyes. After gently brushing the strands of silvery hair from her companion’s forehead, she extinguished the candlestick and stepped out of the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind her.

     Beyond the uncomfortable gift, the entire conversation didn't sit well with her. It dripped with finality and had an element of grim acceptance that had her lingering at the doorway with worry. She felt helpless and antsy, like she needed to do something but didn't know what. The sensation kept her in the same position for several minutes until she decided to occupy herself elsewhere.

     With nothing else to do, her only option was to prepare a dry, quick dinner and then return to her own room, further encouraged by the weight pressed against her thigh. When she emptied the contents of her front pocket, the sight of the sharpened blade catching the light of the flame of her candlestick took her back to a time when she was much, much younger—when things were much, much simpler. Perhaps it had been the story she just heard, but she was feeling nostalgic.

     Long ago, while playing outside and attempting to climb a very tall tree, a carefree Elyssa had lost her footing on one of the fragile branches and dropped in a bed of goosegrass, which was coated with a thick, sticky film. The residue had gotten hopelessly stuck in her hair and clothing, and she attempted to pick it out from the clumped strands, to no avail.

     Sobbing hysterically and with a throbbing scalp, she returned home to her father’s comforting arms and begged him—always her larger-than-life hero—to fix it. His solution, however, was to cut it out, a method he assured would be painless. The result was jagged and ugly, leaving a bald spot at the back of her neck that she self-consciously covered with a hand. Cutting the hair had been painless, but, although the sticky mess had been successfully cleared away, she was still as upset as she had been before.

_“Mother has such long, beautiful hair,” she cried, a hysterical mess of tears and mucus streaming endlessly down her face. “I was growing mine out to look like hers…”_

_“I’m sorry, Elyssa,” her father pleaded, struggling to console her, “but there is nothing I can do about that. At the very least, let me finish cutting so everything is even.”_

     Her father had done the best he could to produce a neat haircut, but it was a miniscule comfort, especially when the young Breton had to watch her sheared locks being cleaned from the floor like little piles of dust—nothing more than a Sundas chore.

     When her mother had returned from a visit to Shel’s house and learned about what happened, she wordlessly picked up the blade. To the shock of her family, she took her own long brown hair—the product of years and years of constant growth and loving care—into her fist, slicing through the thin strands until they were as short as her daughter’s.

_Her mother squatted down and smiled at the awestruck Elyssa. “I liked yours even more.”_

     It was a lie, she knew now, and an incredibly selfless deed simply to bring her comfort for something that would, in time, grow back. When she fingered her long locks mournfully, she lightly chastised herself for being so vain. No longer was she a little girl wanting to be like her mother. She had more important things to worry about than a little bit of physical beauty.

     She knew it would be best if she took small lengths to alter her appearance from what the king and his guards recalled, if she were going to be moving on soon, especially to a city like Wayrest. It would undoubtedly increase her chances of evading arrest—more so than if she did nothing at all. Cutting her hair could effectively turn her into a whole different person, should her captors’ memories be slightly fuzzy. After all, how well did they memorize the way she looked in the short time she had been captive? She was willing to bet that they struggled to remember the color of her eyes.

     Still, she couldn’t suppress the painful reminder of just how long she had been growing the hair out and endured the pang of unhappiness—how much more of herself would she lose in the aftermath of Molag Bal’s presence?

     Just like her mother had done all those years ago, she took her hair into her fist and sawed through the strands with the blade, wincing with each pull at her scalp and the tickling itch of the fibers breaking away. It was messy and uneven, but she would endure. _I’m safer now_ , she assured herself, as she tossed the clumps of brown hair into her clean chamber pot. Saddened by the sight, she turned away. She would deal with the evidence later.

     As the deed was done, there was a sharp knock at the door, the only one in the weeks she had lived at the farmhouse, and Elyssa cautiously went to answer it. As she opened the door and peeked around the threshold at the unknown visitor, she stifled a panicked little gasp due to what she found waiting for her.

     It was a soldier, by the look of his armor and uniform. He appeared fairly wary beneath his iron helmet, glancing over his shoulder, and one of his hands was protectively hovering over the hilt of his sheathed sword. There was an armored horse tied to the walkway fence some distance behind him.

     Steeling herself, she opened the door farther, drawing his critical gaze and attention. Distrustful, her hand remained on the door, though she didn’t know what good it would do against a sword and its determined wielder. “Good evening. What can I do for you?”

     When he _really_ looked at her, whatever he was originally going to say was pushed aside. Instead of answering her question, he squinted at her for a few long moments, dragging his eyes over her appearance, almost to the point of being rude. Unbeknownst to him, all of Elyssa’s muscles had seized up, terrified under his long scrutiny, but, seemingly unable to find what he was looking for, he finally gave her a single nod of acknowledgement.

     It seemed her fears were thankfully unfounded—for now. Was that because of the abrupt haircut, or had he been suspicious for another reason entirely? She would probably never know the answer to that question and, for once, the normally inquisitive young woman didn’t mind.

     “Good evening,” he greeted in return. “This is the Woodsley Farm, is it not?”

     “Yes, it is,” she affirmed. She decided not to repeat her unanswered question and simply let the soldier dictate the direction of the conversation. It was extremely cold outside, but it didn’t seem like the man could feel it beneath his fur cloak and scarf. Elyssa, on the other hand, could feel her fingers slowly growing numb, and she would have preferred to have the conversation somewhere other than the open doorway. She was going to invite him inside, but she was cut off before she could.

     “Who lives in this house with you?”

     She didn’t hesitate; it would only be a partial lie. She was becoming adept at weaving those. “My grandmother and I are the only ones who live here.”

     “And the barn?”

     “Only a few animals, sir. There are two cows, a horse, and a goat. Possibly a few cats, but I’m not entirely sure.”

     He shifted to the side, peering over her shoulder into the house, searching for anything amiss. Finally, he nodded, and his stance changed to something more hospitable. “Then you and your grandmother should soon discuss relocating to somewhere more protected. Your safety is uncertain, considering the numerous bandit attacks that have been occurring in this area. I am going door-to-door to ensure everyone knows this and takes appropriate action.”

     “I will discuss it with her,” Elyssa assured him, “but she’s resting right now. Thank you for the warning.”

     “Do not delay,” he warned again before bidding her farewell and trudging away through the snow to where his horse was impatiently pawing at the ground.

     When the door was closed, Elyssa leaned against it to catch the breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. It had been a close call, she realized, and there would only be more instances of it waiting for her in the future. If she had been sure of anything, it was that she needed to move on after taking her elderly companion to somewhere safe. Daggerfall Covenant—that is, what remained of it after the Alliance War—was no longer her home.

     She had taken the soldier’s advice to heart and feared for their safety, but she didn’t want to disturb Morgyna when she was trying to rest. Thus, she left her alone for a while so that the other woman could regain her failing strength, and she occupied herself with menial chores to pass the time. However, somewhere along the way, as she once again recalled the story she had been told, Elyssa became inspired to make a purchase. The thought of it brightened her mood the slightest bit—she couldn’t wait to see Morgyna’s reaction when she brought it back. She only hoped that it would help ease the transition she was going to suggest that they make. With that, she tiptoed back into the other Breton’s bedroom, leaving the door cracked so she could see. As she neared the lump on the bed, she searched for any indication that she was awake, but her face was buried in the furs.

     “I’m going out to the trading post,” she whispered. Seconds passed without any response or movement from her elderly companion. She made to turn away but hesitated. Turning back to face Morgyna, she admitted just as quietly, “I know it's not the best time to say this, but… well, I haven’t been completely honest with you, and… I want to change that.”

 _I’ll talk to her about it later_ , Elyssa decided when there was still no response. She silently let herself out, bundled up warmly, and left the farmhouse with determination in her stride.

     The sun was still out—though it would be setting in a few hours—and the snow had stopped falling, leaving her with clear visibility far ahead of her. The snow crunched softly beneath her footfalls, leaving a subtle trail in her wake. With extra clothing draping her body, the winter chill was more bearable, but each breath of air still stung her lungs slightly. As beautiful of a day as it was, with endless blue and swirly white looming above, she was still thankful that the trading post was nearby.

     There was a crowd when she arrived, as it seemed everyone was collecting provisions in preparation for moving to safety. It was difficult to worm her way through to the stalls in order to find what she was looking for—something she had given a cursory glance during her last visit but never thought she’d have any use for it. The other browsers had similar ideas and didn’t appreciate Elyssa’s presence, so she was quickly pushed back and forced to wait in line.

     She hated to leave Morgyna alone for any amount of time and quickly realized that what she thought would be a quick expedition would take a chunk of the evening, perhaps even sending her home with the setting sun in her eyes. This became especially apparent when the person in front, a large man with small children clinging to both legs, stubbornly tried to haggle down each and every item in the pile he intended to take with him. And he wasn’t the only one.

     A little more than an hour later, Elyssa had her purchase in-hand and was hurrying through the snowy slush as quickly as she could without tripping over hidden roots and rocks. Although acquiring it had been an irksome experience due to the sheer amount of people, she was excited to return to the farmhouse and present it to Morgyna.

     It was an intricately hand-cut flute made from ruby ash. She had appreciated its beauty the last time she saw it among a stall of other such instruments, but it hadn’t been practical to purchase it. Now, armed with the knowledge of how Morgyna and her spouse had met, she knew it carried vastly more significance than a pretty noisemaker. As a bonus, while she had been waiting in line, someone behind her had noticed the flute in her hands and ended up teaching her a few things about it, including a simple but hauntingly beautiful string of notes that alluded to better times to the people of Wayrest.

     She could hardly wait to play it. Morgyna would be thrilled.

     Her eager thoughts were interrupted by a sharp scent in the air. She inhaled it without realizing she had, and the familiarity of it didn’t strike her for several moments—until she was climbing the last hill impeding her vision of the Woodsley Farm below. Her mind went hopelessly blank, and her breath was sucked from her chest.

     The farmhouse was engulfed in bright orange bellowing flames, nestled amidst a circle of charred ground where the snow had melted.

     Time quickly caught up with her in the aftermath of her initial shock. Elyssa stared in horror at the sight and, with desperate urgency, began sprinting toward it. A strangled scream tore itself from her throat and echoed across the covered plains. Even at her distance, she could feel the heat of the fire on her skin and taste the foul ash.

     “ _No_. Turn away,” the voice of the Lord of Brutality boomed through the wind at her back.

     “I need to find Morgyna!” she cried out over the crashing of the devouring flames and splintering wood. She stumbled over her own feet in her haste. “She must still be inside!”

     Molag Bal’s tone was infinitely more intense and promised much more pain than the prospect of burning alive. “ _I forbid it_. Now, turn back and continue carrying out my orders, champion! Leave her!”

     Her steps stuttered with panicked indecision. Her heart was urging her toward Morgyna, but her mind prickled, attuned to the consequences that would befall her. “But—”

     “— ** _Now!_** ” he roared angrily, the volume and ferocity behind the single word shaking Elyssa to her very core with fright. He gave her no choice but to obey.

     “I’m sorry,” she sobbed brokenly, reluctantly retreating in the opposite direction with shaky legs and uneven footfalls. _I shouldn’t have left._ _Why did I leave her alone? Why didn’t we depart_ _as soon as the soldier warned us?!_ her own thoughts screamed at her accusingly as the regret washed over her like hot acid. The flute was clutched in a white-knuckled grip to her chest. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’m so—”

     Blinded by a sea of tears swimming before her eyes, she had unknowingly run straight into someone’s arms. As she attempted to free herself, the person gently grasped her by the shoulders. A soothing, masculine voice spoke to her, but she ignored it and wrenched away violently, tripping backward and landing on the ground.

     “Easy, easy!” the voice urged. “Don’t hurt yourself. I just want to help. What has happened here?”

     “I-I don’t know!” she blubbered almost incoherently in her distress. “I had gone to the trading post… I was only there for an hour!”

     “Perhaps another bandit attack?” the same voice muttered. He was answered by someone else’s inquisitive hum and a response of, “Where do you think they could have gone from here?”

     Elyssa couldn’t see anything. She didn’t want to see anything. The heels of her palms were smashed against her eyelids, blotting everything out. But she could still feel the telltale heat of the fire on her back and hear the support beams of the roof cracking apart and falling on top of Morgyna’s belongings with thundering, merciless impact. All of those priceless memories, all of those irreplaceable letters, paintings, and baubles—they were forever lost.

     Was it her fault for leaving the fire in the hearth, for leaving a lit candlestick in her bedroom? Or had bandits indeed attacked the farm during the window of her absence? She didn’t have the strength to question it. After all, it happened according to Molag Bal’s plan, and there was nothing she could have done to stop it. Although it stabbed her gruesomely in the heart, it was inevitable, and she needed to think about the future.

 _Please_ , she begged, tilting her face upwards toward the sky, _let it have been painless._

     Her crying had mostly subsided, but the thought of the elder Breton waking up in the middle of it all, trapped in a smoldering inferno of her own ruined possessions and unable to move, choking on a potent cloud of smoke and the stench of her own burning flesh, and _the searing pain, the **agony**_ —it quickly sent Elyssa back into a fit of wracking sobs.

_I should have been here._

     Someone knelt in front of her and murmured soothing nothings. He touched her hair gently. “I know it’s hardly a comfort right now, but we want to help you. May we offer you an escort to Wayrest?”

     “N-n-no, I… I…” she gasped out, chest heaving. With a shuddering gulp, she wiped the tears from her cheeks with the backs of her knuckles and looked up at the soldier’s extended hand. Through her distress, she reminded herself that Molag Bal had no patience for her emotions and was pointedly nudging her to continue obeying his command. No matter the number of thorns she had to step through, he was always behind her, driving her forward, even though she wished dearly to go back and _do something_. His nudging quickly escalated into a shove, and it sent a horrible shockwave through her being. Miserably, she amended, “Y-yes, please. I would appreciate it…”

     Elyssa allowed the man to help her to her feet, and, with a solemn nod, he gestured beckoningly to his horse. With a final, distraught glance at the remains of the farmhouse—and, somewhere below it, Morgyna’s fragile, broken corpse—she allowed him to help her onto the back of his saddle.

     Having dropped from her slackened fingers sometime during her fall, the little red flute laid abandoned and nearly buried in the snow—all that remained of the Woodsley couple’s charred memory—cracked in half when the horse carelessly trotted over it.


	11. A Snapping Maw Heralds the Gaping Abyss

> _“You believe me incapable of invoking pleasure. I assure you, mortal, it is your shame—the grim realization that you enjoy what I can do to you—which incentivizes me,”_ he purred, a husky tone with a sharp undercurrent of malice. _“Fleeting pleasure now… for a lifetime of pain. Come, show me the true depth of your self-hatred.”_
> 
> (This chapter contains  **torture** and an **explicit** scene containing **dubious consent**.)

_2nd Day of Sun's Dusk_

     Realizing that there was a presence hovering beside her, Elyssa snapped her eyes open and reflexively drew back, clutching unfamiliar bedcovers with a tight grip. At her bedside was a fair-featured woman, appearing no older than herself, carrying a covered tray that was giving off the most delectable aroma she had ever inhaled.

     “Begging your pardon, Miss, but I had to be certain you were still alive,” the young woman informed her, the crease between her pale blonde eyebrows a telltale sign of her lingering dread. “You weren’t moving… and your skin was so deathly pale—but… yes, your color is coming back now.”

     Elyssa didn’t know what she could rightfully say to that, so she settled on a simple nod while rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Sending a longing look at the woman’s peace offering, she asked, “What is this?”

     “This?” She lifted the tray and removed the cover, revealing a spread of cubes of fresh honeydew melon, scrambled eggs, and slices of some kind of seared sausage. “This is your breakfast; comes complimentary with the payment of your room. I hope it’s to your liking. I’ve also come to offer a beverage of your choice. We have water, various flavors of tea, wine…”

    As the young Breton salivated uncontrollably at the sight of the food, pressing a hand against her rumbling stomach, the woman’s voice drifted out of focus. Even though she just ate the previous night, she felt as if nothing before had satisfied her hunger, and the anticipation _alone_ was quenching it. She lifted her hands to receive the tray and settled it atop her crossed legs, accepting the fork and knife that accompanied the elaborate silver set. She didn’t mind that the woman was watching her dig into the meal with all the grace of a starved rogue—until she realized through several mouthfuls of lightly salted eggs that her observer was clearly awaiting a response.

     “Your beverage, Miss?” she repeated impassively.

     “Oh, I… Water is fine, thank you.” Now alone in her room, she was free to devour her delicious breakfast as quickly as she wanted to, and she was nearly done with all of it by the time a cup and pitcher of cold spring water arrived.

     The room in which she found herself that early morning was the same one she fell asleep in the previous night. The soldiers who found her at the blazing wreckage of the Woodsley Farm had escorted her southeast to the city of Wayrest, she remembered, and checked her distraught form into the Cloudy Dregs Inn. They’d even kindly paid for her room, despite her protests. But, once her head had landed on that feather-soft pillow, she completely forgot to feel awkward about it and closed her weary eyes—worn from the weeping she had done during the trip to Wayrest—and her mind to the waking world.

     Molag Bal hadn’t uttered a single word to her since the fire. Elyssa was cautiously optimistic that her presence in Wayrest, a sign of her obedience to him, kept him docile; wasn’t it said that no news is good news? However, if she wanted to keep it that way, she would have to move right along with her next task, which was acquiring passage to Windhelm. Splashing her face with fresh water from the basin provided and taking a quick moment to relieve herself, she decided she was as ready as she would ever be and departed the privacy of her room to begin the most daunting trip of her entire life.

     Her knife was nestled in her pocket next to the pouch of coins Morgyna had gifted her, she assured herself by patting down her pocket when she left the Cloudy Dregs Inn behind. Stepping out into the chilly air, she crunched her way through the fine layer of snow that covered the streets.

     Wayrest, the major trading port of Daggerfall Covenant and capital city of Stormhaven, was a bustle of activity, even so early in the morning, but she navigated her way through it, sidestepping carts, animals, and people alike, while making her way south to the dockyard. Along the way, Elyssa was careful to appear as if she belonged, but the presence of soldiers everywhere she turned was unnerving and faltered her steps. Perhaps she was paranoid, but she felt as if her deeds were written all over her face, etched into the unsure way she carried herself. She, a murderer, didn’t belong amongst her fellow people, and her shadow swathed everything it touched in an aura of great evil. But, still, she was compelled to walk on and not look back.

     On the docks, she cautiously approached the harbormaster and awaited her turn in the line that formed in front of him. As she did, she turned her head and cast her gaze across the water, watching the sun rise over the horizon. The explosive tendrils of pale pink, yellow, and orange over a backdrop of soft blue—suspended over a sparkling expanse of gently cresting ocean—was breathtakingly beautiful but failed to make a lasting impact on the miserable young Breton. It was too vibrant, too majestic, and she turned her eyes away from it.

     Within minutes, it was her turn to step forward and speak to the harbormaster.

     “Windhelm? Hmm, well… the closest I can get you to Windhelm is on a ship to Vulkhel Guard.” He leisurely consulted his map. “Oh, that’s not very close at all, is it? My mistake. But, if you’re willing to wait ‘til tomorrow, there will be another ship embarking for… let’s see… a city in Stonefalls called Davon’s Watch. It’s about a three-months’ journey to Windhelm on horseback, uh, assuming you don’t stop anywhere along the way, of course…”

     Seeing the heavy disbelief written all over her face, the harbormaster quickly added, “When you arrive in Davon’s Watch, there’s a good chance there may be ships headed to Windhelm, which will cut your journey down to just a few days. It’s going to cost you to jump onto one, but that’s the price you pay for traveling such a great distance. Now, if you wanted to go to, say, Rivenspire, that’s another story entirely. We ship goods there _at least_ —”

     “—Thank you,” she interrupted quietly, not in the mood for unhelpful prattle and too somber to care about her lack of manners. “Thank you for offering, but I have no need to go anywhere but to Windhelm. I’ll return tomorrow.”

     “See you then,” he said in farewell, already turning to the next person in line and striking up a conversation that faded dully into the background.

     Lingering on the docks, uncertain, Elyssa fretted over her options. Thanks to Morgyna’s kindness, she had the money to procure both another room for the night and passage from Davon’s Watch to Windhelm to cut down on her overall travel time, but she still needed to be careful with how she spent it. Within a few weeks, she would be in a completely foreign place, utterly lost and isolated, and she didn’t know what would be expected of her once she arrived. Raised as she was, she was nothing if not financially conscious and knew her coin pouch wasn’t bottomless.

     Would it be better to remain in Wayrest until direct passage to Windhelm became available, or should she take her chances with Davon’s Watch? Personally, she wanted to stay as close to home as she could for as long as possible, but part of her—the skittish part that had become conditioned to flinch at the mention of Molag Bal’s name alone—cautioned her to be on the docks and ready to wave good-bye to Daggerfall Covenant bright and early the very next morning.

     The answer was obvious; she would have to return tomorrow and set sail for Stonefalls. Sighing, she prepared to return to the depths of the city and couldn’t help but to overhear a conversation between two deckhands on her way past them.

     “Are you ready yet? This shipment needs to be loaded, and we’ve gotta be on the water before the sun is fully risen. They’re gonna need this pier soon,” a nearby man complained to his companion, who was seated on one of a bunch of crates and picking his teeth in the obvious aftermath of his meal.

     “Yeah, just gimme a second. I need to let my food settle. This is all we’ve got left, right? Won’t take but a few minutes to load it.”

     “No, this is _not_ all we’ve got left! We’ve still got all that silk in the dock house. If we don’t get movin’ soon, we’re gonna be way off schedule, and the Jarl of Windhelm is gonna be furious. Guess whose pay it’ll be comin’ out of?”

     “All right, all right. Go get Sorik, and we’ll get the last of the crates onboard. Why does the jarl need so much silk, anyway?”

     “He’s the jarl, and he likes fine things. Do you need more of a reason than that? No, you don’t, so let’s get movin’.”

     By the end of the conversation, Elyssa was already spinning around on her heel and heading toward the dock house before she could talk herself out of the half-cocked plan that formed in her mind.

     Inside, the dock house was completely empty except for a few inconspicuous crates sitting in the far corner by themselves. She approached one of them and paused, briefly making sure she wasn’t being observed. Seeing nobody, she pried the lid off the nearest crate and fingered the contents—piles of smooth silk. Pushing it aside, she made room for herself and slipped into the crate, carefully concealing herself under the folded bundles. After she poked her arms out to shift the wooden lid back to its original placement, an unease struck her almost immediately with how hot the cloth was pressed against her skin, how dark it was with only a few rays of dim light cutting through the long narrow openings between the boards of the crate—and how cramped it was with her knees pressed tightly against her chest and the wood bearing down on her from almost every side. She forced herself to calm her breathing, which had sped up with the spikes of fear piercing her heart, and, in her thoughts, she loudly reminded herself that she had the freedom to climb out of the crate at any time.

     She wasn’t trapped, and everything was fine. She wasn’t claustrophobic; she was simply nervous about getting onto a ship for the first time in her life. It was her comforting mantra. She closed her eyes to shut herself away from that cramped crate on the Wayrest docks and decided to try to sleep the panic away.

 _When I awaken, I will be on a ship to Windhelm. Everything will be fine_ , was her final thought before she succumbed to fitful slumber.

     The unconscious abyss was a still ocean, and she bobbed atop the surface on her back, floating beneath an infinite black sky. As she paddled backward, her pace was sedate, untroubled, and the water was warm and soothing. It welcomed her like a pair of arms, bade her to submerge into its protective depths, and she was compelled to obey. Without needing to take a breath, she lowered herself into the abyss, enjoying the weightlessness, and down and down she sank until she settled gently on the bottom.

     She opened her eyes.

     The Coldharbour wasteland greeted her like a malicious friend who gave only lung-crushing, rib-cracking embraces.

     With a sigh, Elyssa picked herself up off the ground… and froze in the realization that she was completely nude. A lump lodged itself in her throat, and she wrapped her arms around her torso to hide herself from view. That was when she realized that the back of her neck was tingling in an unpleasant way, prompting her to chance a glance to see what caused it, though she already suspected who the source of her unease was. But what she’d been expecting to see and what she actually saw were two very, very different things.

 _What in Oblivion is that?!_ her mind screamed.

     Behind her stood a monster unlike anything she’d ever seen before, one with wings, claws, and teeth for the explicit purpose of catching her and shredding the meat from her bones. Bulging with muscle and covered in horns, he stared down at her from his colossal height. His long tail reminded her of that of Molag Bal, with its angular, axe-shaped curve at the tip.

     Sucking in a quick breath, she made the split-second decision to run far away from him.

     Taking to the sky, the Daedric titan flapped his massive wings, whipping up a powerful gust that sent her flying. She hit the dirt, rolling painfully, before she collided with a large stone in her path. Wrapping an arm around her bruised ribs and giving herself little time to recover, she scrambled to her feet and fled, her bare feet slapping the ground with throbbing pulses that rattled the bones of her legs and burned like a million insects marching through her toes and heels. Her mind was blank with panic and the need to survive, to keep moving as fast as she could.

     Her pulse pounded in her ears, and her lungs were burning from the exertion. She could feel the presence of the terrifying creature bearing down on her, swooping lower and lower, able to overtake her pace with ease. It was a game to him—she was his helpless prey and mere moments away from losing.

     At long last, the barren wasteland crested, and, over the hill, she laid eyes on a ruined building just ahead of her. She shot toward it with mindless determination, one arm outstretched in preparation to shove at the door keeping her from safety. Her mouth was agape, and she was wheezing hard, struggling and failing to take in enough oxygen from the thin and unforgiving Coldharbour atmosphere to sustain her rapid pace.

     Halfway to her destination, something tore across the back of her shoulder, ripping through her skin, and she let out a shrill scream at the explosion of agony that accompanied the sudden wound. Tripping over her own feet, she landed on her hands and knees, scraping them. Biting down on her lip to suppress her cry, she flipped over onto her back to frantically search the sky for her predator while dragging herself backward. She didn’t know where he was, couldn’t see him anywhere in the empty expanse of dark clouds—but his whereabouts didn’t remain a mystery for very long.

     The low roar at her back chilled her spine. Snapping her head to the side, she spotted the titan perched atop the very building she’d intended to find sanctuary within. His tremendous weight was caving the roof in, and his countless blackened teeth were bared; his long, serpentine tongue was extended, as if tasting the air. His wingspan overtook the length of the building, as widely outstretched and tensed for flight as his fleshy dark wings were. He was waiting for her to make the first move.

     Elyssa wasn’t sure she wanted to.

     Subtly, she scanned her surroundings, looking for any possible escape, any means of hiding— _anything at all_. Other than a few piles of rubble and scattered brush, there was nothing easily in reach. There was nowhere for her to go, and they both knew it.

     Finally, the Daedric creature’s patience wore out, and he roared, loud and threatening, before leaping from the building toward her. His jaws snapped, muscles bulging, and he cleared the distance between them in seconds with his bounding gait.

     The young Breton cried out and tensed, unable to do anything but wait to be eaten alive. But, as the titan’s hot breath engulfed her, the ground swallowed her, dropping her a short distance onto a marble floor. The impact jarred her tailbone, and she stiffened in silent pain while surveying her new location through watery eyes, pressing a hand to her rapidly beating heart.

     The room was furnished tastefully in dark blue tapestries, every dark surface gleaming like jewels catching firelight. The iron sconces held floating blue fire, casting dramatic shadows that nipped and fought like wild beasts across the walls. But most important of all was the sturdy roof over her head, shielding her from the wrath of her voracious predator. Feeling relatively safe—as safe as she could ever feel in Oblivion—she turned her attention to her injuries and, while wincing, picked dirt and rocks out of the scrapes on her hands and knees. There was nothing she could do about the cut on her back; she couldn’t even see it, no matter how she twisted and turned.

     In her distraction, she failed to notice the three new additions to the room. Someone settled down behind her, grabbing her breasts, and, as the same time, someone else pinned her legs down, keeping her in place.

     Elyssa yelled, fighting against the two sets of hands on her body.

     There was a male Daedra at her feet, his red eyes peering out at her from under a cowl while his lips stretched into a sharp smile. Inching forward menacingly, he slid his hands along her trembling thighs.

     “Ooh, I see why Lord Ozzozachar wanted to play with it. Such a powerful reaction,” a feminine voice breathed huskily in her ear. “So _responsive_.”

     “But I can’t imagine it’d make a very good meal for someone of his size,” the third Daedra droned, strolling just barely into sight at the edge of Elyssa’s peripheral vision. He held a thorny whip in his hands. “So very scrawny—more bones than anything else.”

     “And such tiny breasts,” the female Daedra jeered, squeezing and mercilessly digging her fingernails into the sensitive flesh of her chest. “Less than a handful each. I’m _bored_.”

     “Barely any curves to hold onto,” the Daedra at her feet cruelly added, lifting her thighs to wrap them around his narrow waist. “This mortal is as flat and lifeless as a stick, with a personality to match. I would rather mate with a rotting carcass than this pathetic creature!”

     “Worthless, nowhere near fit to serve our lord as his champion,” the male bystander spat, snapping his whip threateningly on the ground inches away from her. “An innocent face to hide an empty brain. It’s a wonder it’s not dead yet.”

     “It’s not true— _none of it!_ ” Elyssa vehemently denied, shaken by their nonstop stream of insults and intrusion of her body, but, when her hands darted up to hide her face, the female Daedra interfered and tightly bound her wrists together in front of her body with rope. The young Breton’s eyes and nose were leaking, and her face was a miserable mess. Her tormentors’ wicked features swam incomprehensibly in her tear-glazed eyes. But even more vile than their sharp teeth and demonic eyes were the razor-edged words they hurled at her; they cut, shredded, and left her in shambles.

     “It speaks!” they taunted as one.

     “I’m a woman!” she cried out over their peals of baleful laughter. “Stop calling me that! I’m not an ‘it’!”

     “What do you think, Kynthokaos?” The female simpered, still rhythmically squeezing at Elyssa’s reddened breasts and drawing pinpoints of blood with her dagger-like nails. “Is it a woman? This hair is so gross and ugly; I just don’t know!”

     Kynthokaos, between her legs, smirked nastily, his red eyes glittering. “Shall I find out, Doshiana?”

     “Oh, yes,” she purred, fluttering her lashes seductively. “I’m eager to hear the sounds your talented fingers can wring from it. Don’t hold back.”

     “Stop!” Elyssa shrieked, twisting and writhing in their grasps as the male Daedra crept closer to the apex of her thighs. “Stop, stop! _Stop!_ ”

     “Lord Bal will want it intact for his own fun,” the bystander dryly reminded his companions. “For whatever reason, he seems to enjoy tormenting it.”

     “What a killjoy you are, Ykalyu,” Kynthokaos huffed, pulling away, “but, yes, you’re right. It’s not our place to deprive Lord Molag Bal when he gifts us so many other mortals with which to play.”

     “I tire of this thing, anyway. Let us occupy ourselves with something worthwhile and leave it to our lord,” Doshiana quipped, rising to her feet and stepping into the young woman’s line of sight. The busty, curvaceous Daedra shot her one last disdainful look before dissipating on the spot, and her male companions quickly followed suit.

     Unwilling to move, Elyssa curled into a tight ball and wrapped her arms around her knees. As much as she tried to ignore the Daedric trio, they’d known exactly what to say to faze her. No physical violence had been required; they’d used her insecurities to rip deeper into her than any blade could possibly reach, and, in the aftermath of their brief torture, she was a raw mess, bleeding with depression and self-loathing. And, to think, she had an eternity of it to look forward to—she wanted to flail and tear her hair out, to scream herself hoarse to the Divines for forsaking her to this twisted reality.

     But, above else, she wanted to free her and her father’s souls from Molag Bal and find the peace she craved. _But how?_ The answer forever eluded her.

     In her abject misery, a familiar shadow overtook over her, and she stiffened, wiping at her bloodshot eyes. Parting her dry lips, she croaked, “…Master,” but didn’t look at him, didn’t move at all.

     “Face me, champion,” he demanded impatiently.

     Exhaling shakily, it took effort to kneel before Molag Bal—no, _cower_ before him, fearing what he could do to her in her vulnerability. Her arms wrapped around her small breasts, and she held her breath as she beheld him.

     The Daedric prince was simmering with anger, and she couldn’t fathom why.

     “During your short time together, my son grew fond of you,” he began idly to break the silence. “He is called to the irresistible scent of your fear and would enjoy playing again with you.”

     “Your… son?” Just as the foreign sentiment passed her lips, the sudden powerful roar of the Daedric titan—Ozzozachar, as he was called—bore down on her as he swooped somewhere overhead. The ferocity of it was enough to send a shudder tearing through her taut muscles, and it left no doubt as to whom Molag Bal was referring.

     “Yes. But, next time…” he drawled menacingly, “…perhaps I will let him have a taste.”

     Elyssa didn’t know how to respond and remained silently attentive in her terror. She was too afraid to speak, not willing to risk his brutal retaliation, until she knew what exactly she had done to anger him. Had her crate been left behind in Wayrest instead of being loaded onto the merchant ship bound for Windhelm? Had she misunderstood the deckhands and made a mistake?

     “I should rend your soul and leave your empty husk of a body to feed the maggots,” he lashed out, looming closer. “But what should become of you? Shall I banish you to the Cliffs of Failure to fight for your life in a never-ending war for redemption… or to the Grotto of Depravity to satisfy my subjects’ lust for mortal flesh? Or shall I remake you into my own personal foot stool? The choices are almost endless, as we do have all of an _eternity_ together.”

     Her continued silence only seemed to provoke him further, and Elyssa quickly found herself shoved face-first into the ground, hard enough to bruise her cheek. Her hands were trapped beneath her chest, and her hips were in the air, a pose remarkably similar to when he’d first taken her. Quaking with terror, she felt him draw nearer and kneel behind her.

     “ _Speak!_ ” he boomed. “Which will it be?”

     “None! I don’t want any of it!” she yelped as her head was ripped back by her short hair. She accidentally bit down on her tongue, and hot agony exploded with the shallow wounds left behind by her teeth. Saliva flooded her mouth, and the pinkened fluid dribbled out over her chin. She couldn’t even wipe it away.

     “Hmph. Mortals live amongst common beasts that mate like this in the mud and filth.” Molag Bal grasped her hips and jerked her back to press against his heavy loincloth, rutting hard enough to jostle her. The palm of his hand smoothed down the cheek of her backside, squeezing, before he solidly slapped it, making the flesh bounce. “To be taken in this manner degrades you, pains you… but it can be endured. It does not shame you enough. I can do better.”

     Elyssa was flipped over on her back like the ragdoll she had become in his presence. Unprepared, she jolted in shock when he reached down to nudge a fingertip against her clitoris. She closed her legs around his arm, but it did nothing to deter him. He nudged it gently, spreading her vaginal lips, stimulating her in an intimate manner that she’d never experienced from anyone else. His treatment harshly contrasted his mood in a way that left her reeling. She’d never been knocked so off-balance, so utterly unable to predict the Daedric prince’s next move.

     “You believe me incapable of invoking pleasure. I assure you, mortal, it is your shame—the grim realization that you enjoy what I can do to you—which incentivizes me,” he purred, a husky tone with a sharp undercurrent of malice. “Fleeting pleasure now… for a lifetime of pain. Come, show me the true depth of your self-hatred.”

     With the point of his wickedly spiked nail dragging through the curls of her pelvis, Molag Bal teased at her hooded erogenous center, rubbing enticing circles into the delicate flesh. He impassively watched her writhe under his ministrations in weak jerks.

     Elyssa’s eyes fluttered, her lips parting, under the pleasurable sensation. She clenched her abdominal muscles as the pressure mounted upon itself the longer he manipulated her tiny, treacherous bundle of nerves. With her breath taken from her, her protest was weak and airy, but there was adamant disgust—both with herself for having the capacity to accept pleasure from a creature who frequently tortured her and with the terrible creature himself—in every violent twist of her body and the deep furrow of her brow. “Please stop…”

     Molag Bal, to the Breton’s surprise, paused at her words, considering them. His eyes, narrowed into blue slits, leered down at her. “Oh? Would you rather feel pain? Your choice is inconsequential to me.”

     It was an impossible decision; no, Elyssa wouldn’t prefer pain over pleasure. But, at the same time, it shamed her to imagine giving into his touch. Her lips wobbled, and silent tears stung at her eyes. Utterly indecisive, she ultimately said nothing and turned her head away, prompting her tormentor to knowingly continue with his erotic torture and play with her nipples with his other hand.

     It felt _incredible_ , and she _hated_ it. She wanted him to stop, but she wasn’t resilient enough to trade it for a brutal rape that would tear her inner tissues into raw, fiery ribbons and result in her being squashed beneath his bulky frame, made to feel like nothing more than a useless human receptacle—ending with her blood pouring out between her thighs and her body shaking with pathetic sobs that shrilly echo through the hollow infinity of Coldharbour for all to hear.

     Molag Bal briefly abandoned her clitoris, gliding his finger down the length of her pussy to her quivering hole. The tip of his digit dipped inside of her the slightest bit, swirling through the wetness that pooled there and rubbing it across her puffy folds, teasing her closer to orgasm. His dutiful motions filled the silence between them with lewd, slick noises.

     Elyssa let out a small sound, arching her hips minutely. She was panting, growing dangerously close to coming, and her stomach flipped with a bout of nausea. A dry sob tore from her throat with the realization that she couldn’t resist him, that her body yearned for him to bring her to completion, to flood her senses with a potent drug of white-hot nothingness and euphoria. Her pussy throbbed and pulsed demandingly, and she was so, _so_ close.

     Her hips lifted higher, beckoningly, pleadingly, all but begging in none-too-subtle body language what her lips refused to voice— _Please let me come_. Sweat rolled down her body, and the chilly air of Coldharbour became a strangely pleasant collision against the raging inferno that was her flushed body. Unwittingly relinquishing herself over to his mercy, her eyes squeezed shut in preparation, pleasure dramatically spiking in a telltale warning, and she—

     Molag Bal completely withdrew from her, leaving her flustered, horrified, and on the brink of orgasm.

     Tears beaded at the corners of the young woman’s eyes and spilled down her eyelashes at the profound sense of loss and self-loathing that gripped her. Heart pounding and skin prickling attentively, she tentatively peered up at her cruel master.

     Above her, the Lord of Brutality coldly stared her down from his towering height. “Champion, you have disappointed me. You have angered me. I do not tolerate failure from my servants,” he spat.

     “W-what?” she stammered, struck with dread. It took her a few seconds to decipher his meaning through the fog of her heightened senses. “Morgyna… Morgyna d-died, and the fire claimed her house… Your orders were fulfilled!”

     Molag Bal sneered. “You neither killed her nor set the fire. My orders were _not_ at all fulfilled, impertinent insect.”

     “I wasn’t responsible for the fire?” Elyssa was shocked, relieved, horrified—all at once.

     “No,” he retorted shortly, “you were not. _I_ was. In your continued disobedience, one of my servants was summoned to set fire to the mortal’s home, and she was burned alive. Her suffering was great, and she knew, in those last agonizing moments of her worthless existence, to fault you for it.”

     Elyssa sagged, sniffling. She shivered as a breeze drifted by and cooled the sweat pooled in the creases of her thighs and elbows, leaving her pimpled with gooseflesh. Staring beyond the hulking form of the Daedric prince, she recalled the last time she saw the elder Breton in question. Perhaps she’d realized it when it happened but refused to acknowledge it—and then, with the fire, she’d been too distraught to consider it further. “No… Morgyna had already passed before the fire caught. There was no pain; she died in her sleep.”

     “Hm,” was all he voiced, unwilling to deny or confirm.

 _The truth is a comfort to me_ , she thought, _and I don’t believe his lies_. _He can’t hurt me with Morgyna’s death._

     Molag Bal’s nostrils flared in annoyance; he was losing his normally stoic composure. He resumed teasing her, and, in her unfulfilled state, her pleasure flared anew, strongly reawakened, and she squirmed in helpless desire. When she bared her neck, he leaned down and dragged his cold tongue over its curve, lapping at the sensitive skin. His slow breaths further clashed with the feverish heat emitting from her. It didn’t take very long before she was gasping brokenly, approaching sweet blissfulness.

     Again, his hands dropped away from her when she was about to come, leaving her poised in a hellish limbo.

     Elyssa would not beg; she didn’t want him to bring her to orgasm. Dropping her eyes down the length of the Daedric prince’s body, she briefly considered the cloth hanging between his thighs and brushing the ground between her spread calves. Was this arousing him? She suspected it was. Sprawled there on the ground between his knees, her wrists bound together just below the swell of her breasts, chest heaving, she received her answer when he brushed the sash aside, grabbed her by the leg to elevate her, and pressed the tip of his erect length against her twitching hole. The crown of thorns adorning it stopped just shy of prickling her delicate skin when he arched forward to barely penetrate her warmth, stretching her soaking folds around his girth.

     All the air in her lungs abruptly left her in a single, harsh breath, and she tensed, held in terrifying suspense. But he only pulled away after a few moments, a lascivious string of her juices still clinging to him as he dropped her back to the ground. He shifted back to lean down, approaching her face.

     “You infuriate me, my little champion,” he growled into her ear, wrenching a shudder from her when he flicked his long tongue against the skin. “You are weak-willed, simple-minded, and foolish. Your death will greatly please me.”

     To demonstrate his ire, Molag Bal inflicted his torture over and over again, to the point that it took less than thirty seconds for her to become delirious with unfulfillment and wasted energy. With her senses utterly attuned to his touch, they all but sung with delight when he dipped to meanly lick and caress her, when he shuffled forward after tasting her to dip the head of his cock inside of her and thrust shallowly like it was an unspoken threat, with her backside lifted in the palm of one of his hands. Her toes curled, feet arched, and her legs fell open enough to press against the insides of his thighs. When his hand cupped her breast, her two bound ones lifted to curl loosely around his thick wrist. Her body was restless, constantly wiggling, writhing, worming around—anything to find the release that evaded her, to no avail.

     He wouldn’t allow it.

     And she was disgusted with herself for wanting it.

     “When you arrive in Windhelm, locate my shrine. Be gracious that I will, even now, despite your insolence, reward you there for your effort. But do so **without** **delay** , for I am impatient,” the Lord of Domination ordered, leaving her high-strung and skin crawling with sensitivity. As he rose to stand, her hands fell away from him.

     “Yes, Master,” she whimpered subserviently, feeling like dirt at his feet, before she was banished from his presence and Coldharbour altogether—the most merciful he had ever been toward her.

     When the blue-black of Coldharbour finally melted away as she came to, she was welcomed back to Nirn with a stifling blackness that she, in her shaky emotional state, could not bring herself to deal with at that moment. Pushing aside the cloth, she reached upward to the lid of the crate, pushing against it.

     It wouldn’t budge.

     Growing uneasy, Elyssa sat up, neck bent, and used her head and hands to shove at the lid that felt as immovable as a boulder. Bracing her feet as best as she could against the slippery silk below her, she shoved and pushed and forced, but it still wouldn’t budge. Her unease skyrocketed into panic, and she screamed, jerking her muscles to free herself. Falling back, she wildly kicked and shoved with all of her strength, but she was trapped, squashed between heavy folds of silk, contained on all sides by thick boards of wood. She was _trapped_. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest, and she could hear blood rushing in her ears. Were her lungs shrinking? Air wouldn’t come to her; she couldn’t catch her breath. It was too hot.

 _I’m going to die_.

     “By the Divines, what is going on down here?!” a man yelled through her animalistic shrieks.

     “Help me!” Elyssa cried. “I’m stuck in the crate! Please, please get me out—I can’t breathe!”

     “Hold on a damn second!” he grumbled, drawing closer to her. “Which crate are you in?”

     “ _Here_. I’m in here with the silk.” She stuck her fingers out between the cracks in the crate and desperately wiggled them to grab his attention.

     With a grunt, he shuffled nearer. “There’s a crate on top of you; that’s why you couldn’t get out. Y’know, I have half a mind to leave you in there for sneaking your way onboard.”

     “No, please, no,” she begged. “Please let me out.”

     It was an empty threat, for, within moments, the man moved the crate blocking her exit and pulled the lid off, allowing the gasping Elyssa to spring out of her prison and into the fresh air that cooled her heated flesh. Accepting his offered hand, the young Breton carefully climbed out and set her feet on the gently listing wood below her, watching her disgruntled savior paw through the mess she left in the crate.

     “Hey, what—you bled on the silk, girl!” The sailor sent a disgusted glare at her, yanking out a bundle of silk that was stained with dark crimson. At her wide-eyed stare, he dropped the cloth as if it were rancid, maggot-infested meat. “I might not be sendin’ you to the depths, but you _will_ be paying for that.”

     “I… I will, of course.” She dug out her coin pouch from her pocket. In her haste, she sliced her finger on the blade of her knife but was numb to the pain. “How much do I owe you?”

     He critically eyed her, taking in the fray of her threadbare dress, the messy tangle of dark hair, and the haunted stare in her eyes. His shoulders sagged as he let out a long sigh. “Give me twenty gold coins, and I guess we’ll call it—well, it’s nowhere close to even, but I’ll deal with it.”

     Gratefully, Elyssa pressed the coins into his hand and, at his prompting, followed him above deck to speak to the captain, who grudgingly permitted her to remain on the ship, under the condition that she leave as soon as they reached Windhelm and never come back. She vehemently agreed.

     Dinner consisted of half a cup of oatmeal, a few strips of dried beef, and half a cup of wine, and she savored the meal, thankful that they were allowing her to eat their food. Afterward, in privacy, she dealt with her undergarments, washing the spots of blood out in a provided basin and hanging them on the side to dry. She hated needing to tear the hem of her dress to absorb her menstruation, but it had to be done.

     Late that night, curled up in a coil of rope in the blackened hull of the ship, surrounded by the creaks and groans of the ship and the murmuring ocean, she self-consciously squeezed her own breasts, testing their weight. Then she pressed her fingers to her clitoris and brought herself to a fleeting, unremarkable orgasm—and silently, bitterly, wept afterward, hating the Divines, Cocher, the Altmer, the Wayrest harbormaster, the Daedra, herself...

     Hating _him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Credits:**  
>  \- One of my readers, known as **skitamine** here and in the Tumblr community, decided to draw a portrait of Elyssa Gaering despite my lack of description about her features, and I wholeheartedly approve of the result. You can [click here](http://skitamine.tumblr.com/post/160915807823/elyssa-from) to see it for yourself! Isn't her blank, haunted stare just perfect?
> 
> \- Credit for the lovely orgasm denial in this chapter goes to another one of my readers, **CuddleyCat1**! Thanks for the inspiration!


	12. An Obliging Stranger Eases a Troublesome Burden

> She hid a smile behind her hand and peered at him from under her lashes, admiring the way the shadows skirted around the masculine edges and planes of his impressive physique. _“I wouldn’t kick you out in the snow. At least, not without your trousers.”_
> 
> (This chapter contains an **explicit sex** scene between two OCs.)

_18th Day of Sun's Dusk_

     In Windhelm, Elyssa stepped off the gangplank from her temporary home, the bobbing merchant ship, and her feet touched solid ground for the first time in weeks. The dark water below churned and rhythmically bumped icicle chunks against the docks, and it was disorienting when her body didn’t sway with it. There was a sharp bite to the wind, which dragged against exposed flesh like the edge of a blunt dagger, but she was unfazed. Ever since they coasted past the Orsimer homeland of Wrothgar, she’d become accustomed to the wintry air and further buried herself in the fur coat she’d been given. The bottom few inches dragged over the ground, and, swathed in it, she felt more like a mass of animal than herself. But it did its job well.

     A clamor drew her attention back to the ship, where crates were being brought up on deck and stacked for transport. Sorik, the man who’d persuaded the captain to let her stay aboard, picked up one of them and carefully made his way to where Elyssa was standing. He was guided by torchlight, for the sun had already set.

     “Thank you for the passage,” she said, offering an awkward curtsey that had the hood of her coat flopping over her face. She freed her gloved hand from the depths of her sleeve and shoved it back in time to watch Sorik drop his burden at her feet.

     “Yeah, no problem,” Sorik grunted. Over his shoulder, as he crossed the gangplank, he added, “Just remember: If you come back here for any reason, we’re going to have a long conversation about the _actual_ price of that silk. You got me?”

     Well aware of the consequences, knowing she’d more than overstayed her welcome with the weary sailors, Elyssa thanked him again and didn’t look back when she strode away toward the high walls that hugged Windhelm. The guards at the eastern gate held up their torches to look at her when she approached, but they only blinked sleepy eyes at her, not deigning to comment on her undoubtedly unusual appearance.

     “Excuse me. I’m looking for the tavern. Could you point me in the right direction?” she asked them, stifling a yawn. The thought of a real bed on sturdy ground—of clean linens and furs and basking in the glow of a lit hearth—was very attractive, and, with instructions from Molag Bal not readily forthcoming, she had only one destination in mind for that evening.

     “We’ve got two of them. Which one are you looking for?”

     “Oh… just whichever one is closer, please.”

     “Then you’ll be wanting the Cold Moon. Head through here and follow the path south.”

     “The smell of the horse stables should get you there,” the other guard quipped, shifting his weight with a rustle of metal. When she left them, to his companion, he said, “So, anyway, I tell her, ‘It’s not quite dragon-sized, but it’s still pretty damn impressive.’”

     “I guess that was a deal-breaker, eh?”

     “No, idiot. _Obviously,_ I had duty, and she’s only in town for tonight, anyway.”

     “And you believed her? My brother, you scared her off with your dragon-sized ego—not your tiny prick.”

     The roar of laughter faded as Elyssa turned left and navigated the path through a cluster of houses and businesses. Following the tendrils of orange light spilling out from the frosted windowpanes, she crunched her way through a cushion of freshly fallen snow. Chickens stirred in their pens as she passed by, but, other than that, she was alone, with only the creeping of shadows around her and the eerie silence to keep her company. If she’d had the ability to drop her guard, she might have found the scene peaceful. The rows of houses fell away, and, against the pockets of shadowy void, the snow seemed to glow under the unimpeded light of Tamriel’s moons. Her long exhales, like specters that fleetingly swirled, hung before her before dissipating.

     When the ground began to slope upward slightly, her ears prickled at the startlingly clear sound of footsteps at her back. Whoever it was, they had a long stride and was quickly overtaking that of her own short legs. Dread pooled in her chest, and she slipped her hand into her pocket, cupping the comforting weight of the knife she kept with her.

 _It’s just one of the sailors or a guard,_ she told herself. Nonetheless, she clutched the handle of her knife harder and sucked in quick, chilly breaths that stung her lungs—air so cold that it burned. Her blood careened through her veins as her fight-or-flight response took charge, and, in her anxiety, she felt like her tendons would snap apart.

     It was neither a sailor nor a guard. A man came up beside her, swathed in more fur than she was, one of his footprints larger than two of hers. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, gauging his posture for any signs of threat, but he didn’t seem interested in her. While she slowed to a stop, he continued on and climbed the stairs. He cut a right at the top and promptly disappeared from her line of sight, leaving her strung with tension and paranoia.

 **_He_ ** _did this to me._ Elyssa sagged slightly, as if the weight of the fur around her shoulders had tripled. Rubbing a hand over her forehead, she ascended the stairs and was blasted with the nose-wrinkling stench of dung. _I need a drink._

     Elyssa’s time on the ship hadn’t just helped her find her balance on the rolling sea and a stomach for the most mundane slop; she’d also acquired an appreciation for alcohol. It borrowed her debilitating sense of solicitude—promising to return it, though she insisted that she never wanted it back—and, in return, blessed her with a temporary existence beyond Tamriel, beyond Oblivion, beyond anything but what was allowed inside of her mind’s little world. She yearned for that sweet blissfulness every time she woke up painfully sober and still soul-bound to a Daedric prince who seemed to be growing bored of her, if his weeks of absence were any indication.

     The imminence of her death caused a turmoil within her. At times, she resigned herself, knowing there was nothing she could do to prolong her life, but she was terrified of dying. Most people didn’t have the luxury of knowing when their time on Nirn was coming to an end, but, to her, the absolute certainty wasn’t something she knew how to properly deal with. It sapped her mentally and emotionally and was the reason that she silently cried before bed. She couldn’t do it—yet here she was, marching onward at her master’s bidding. It was baffling, a paradox. It was her fate.

     The group congregating outside of the Cold Moon Inn was obnoxiously loud, but few men and women acknowledged her presence with more than their peripherals before being drawn back into the apparent drinking contest and three different conversations taking place at once. Elyssa kept her head down and passed through the mob, successfully going unmolested, though she was almost yanked down to the frozen path a when a boot briefly landed on the train of her coat.

     Once inside, her first task was to acquire a room for the night, and, with that done, she tucked her key into her pocket. Then she made a beeline for the bar. Passing the barkeep a few coins from her pouch, she mumbled simply, “Mead.”

     Elyssa swiveled around to find a secluded table near the fireplace. Thankfully, with the massive group outside, the bar had been recently vacated, and she was able to navigate through the disarray and slump into a chair, back to the wall and face to the roaring fire. The heat washed over her pinkened nose and cheeks, thawing the life back into her, though her troubles were an ever-present, cold knot in her breast.

     She regarded the hypnotic dance of the flames in the hearth, not bothering to tear her eyes away when her requested mug arrived at her table. She wrapped her hand around the handle and brought it to her lips. The warm, strong mead seared its way across her tongue and down her throat, and she chased it with a lick of her lips. Although she’d been repeatedly introduced to mead during the voyage, clearly, it had been a poor substitute for what the Nords were famous for. She soon found herself guzzling it, loving the burn and spice.

     Without prompt, a bar wench approached, knowingly bringing another mug filled to the brim, and, with coins in hand, she left Elyssa to drink herself into a fuzzy stupor—it was strong stuff, stronger than she’d ever had before. The second drink went down easier than the first and tasted twice as delicious. She would’ve ordered a third one, but her fingers were too clumsy to open her coin pouch.

     At some point, she began to peruse the contents of the room, her attention momentarily drawn by the bar hands wiping down the counters and washing a mountain of dishes that were soaking in the basin. Disinterested, she trailed her eyes over the line of mismatched barstools, animal skins hanging on the walls, and faintly smoking candlestick stubs glued to the tabletops in pools of hard wax—all the way to another pair of eyes that were locked with hers. Across the tavern, a man was staring directly at her and didn’t even flinch when he was caught.

     If she’d been sober, she would have questioned his possible intentions, even pored and panicked over them, but, now, she was strangely turned on from the potent concoction that was comfortable drunkenness, the illusion of safety, and a rigid masturbation schedule over the last few weeks. Her body knew it was time for stress-relief, and she was so tired of being alone. With that in mind, she pushed herself upright and wobbled her way over toward the stranger.

     She’d prepared some inkling of a speech in her head, but, when she approached him, watching him appraise her with dark-eyed interest that she knew was reciprocated in her own foggy gaze, her mind went blank. He was a handsome specimen—cropped blond hair, modest facial hair, a strong jawline, and a muscular frame. She was inebriated and mesmerized, her desire laid bare for him.

     “I’m Bjoren,” he said in a deep baritone tinged with accent.

     “I’m Elyssa.” Smiling shyly, she grasped onto the edge of his table when she felt her body dangerously sway, as if she were still back on the ship, rolling with the tumultuous waves. Her blurry vision only added to the dreamlike haze, for she knew she’d never have the courage to approach a man otherwise.

     Bjoren quirked an eyebrow at her obvious drunkenness and crossed his arms over his chest. “Need some help there?”

     “Maybe…” Elyssa trailed off, swallowing through a mouthful of saliva. A hint of boldness had her suggestively adding, “Maybe you could help me find my room?”

     He didn’t verbally answer. Instead, he downed the contents of his mug and tucked his half-empty bottle of mead into his belt. Rising from his seat, he curled his hand around her bone-thin wrist and gently led her to the staircase. Stumbling in the wake of his steady gait, she alternated between spikes of excitement and panic—why wasn’t he saying anything? The silence was stifling, but she was suddenly too timid to fill it. Her tongue was heavy in her mouth until they reached her room, when she mumbled, “That one.”

     As she fiddled with her room key, he leaned down and swept her hair aside so he could pepper her neck with open-mouthed kisses. It was terribly distracting, especially with how his lips latched around patches of her sensitive skin and sucked—her fingers missed the lock more than once. Taking pity on her fumbling, Bjoren fished the key out of her hands and smoothly inserted it in the lock, finally letting them spill into her cozy room.

     A fire was already blazing in the hearth, bathing the room in heat. In Elyssa’s arousal, it was unpleasantly warm, but she was far too distracted with how her companion kicked the door shut and hooked one of his fingers under her chin to bring her to her tiptoes. He angled his face so his mouth could fully envelope hers, and he kissed her deeply, continuing his ministrations with the occasional soft smack of their damp skin parting. His tongue smoothed over her bottom lip and dipped inside when she opened for him, and her palate was flooded with the spicy tang of the mead he’d been drinking.

     Her body was trembling, unaccustomed to the surge of red-hot lust that strung up her nerve-endings and attuned them purely to the heady taste, scent, _touch_ of the Nord bent over her and taking control of her mouth. She couldn’t focus on anything but the way his tongue curled with hers, luring it out so he could suck on it. She barely noticed when he backed her up against the bed and worked her fur coat off of her shoulders, letting it and her gloves fall to the floor in a lumpy pile. But she did notice when the fingers of one of his hands found her nipple and played with it through the fabric of her dress.

     Drowning in a heady rush of pleasure, Elyssa’s knees gave out, and she sprawled over the bed, panting, face flushed. Pushing herself up on her elbows, she crawled backward to make room for her companion, who joined her after discarding his shirt and placing his bottle of mead on the side table. She tilted her face to wordlessly plead for another kiss, and he quickly obliged her, threading a hand through her dark hair and cupping the back of her head. The lazy scratch of his nails on her scalp was soothing and contrasted nicely with the scratch of his beard on her chin.

     As he straddled her body, the tent of his erection was all too apparent, pressed against her abdomen and erratically twitching in need. Elyssa reached down between their bodies and cupped him, stroking him through his breeches and enjoying the way he arched into her touch. After a while of thoroughly tasting each other, of playing with him and stirring him into a frenzy, she released him. Ready for more, she wiggled her way to freedom so she could slide out of her worn dress and undergarments. Bjoren impatiently shoved her down on her hands and knees, working apart the tie keeping him restrained. As he teased himself, his knuckles brushed against her with the completion of every long stroke.

     Although she knew it was a completely different situation, Elyssa stared wide-eyed down at her pillow, feeling her heart pound. Her flesh prickled at the imaginary sensations of cold breath on her back, of the knifepoint claws piercing her hips, of menacing words whispered on the stale air of Coldharbour. Unprepared and a little lost, she jumped slightly when warm human fingers nudged her thighs apart.

     Bjoren positioned his cock at her entrance, grasping ahold of her hips. The slight sting of their coupling punctured through her drunken haze with startling clarity—it was really happening. At her sudden sharp exhalation and muscles clenching around him when he started pushing inside, he seemed to realize and backed off.

     “It’s okay,” she breathed, pushing back against him in encouragement. Her fingers found her clitoris and stimulated it with small, familiar circles. She closed her eyes and fought to block any unwanted memories from spoiling the evening. “I want this…”

     Eventually, she grew wet enough for him to ease deeper inside of her with small rocking motions. It was a slow process, one that stung with every new inch, but it was a great relief when his hips finally met her posterior. They were both sweating; Bjoren had to peel himself off of her when he grasped her hips and pulled out just enough to ready himself for another thrust.

     Elyssa’s eyelids fluttered, and she stopped touching herself to instead grasp at the bedsheets. His velvety length dragged against her pulsing walls in a sensual caress, and, eager to feel his thick cock entirely sheathed within her, she found herself matching his pace, pushing herself back onto him. Her body buzzed with energy, pooling with pleasure, all but soaring when Bjoren’s fingers found her neglected clitoris and nudged it with an attentive thumb. Small sounds escaped her throat as she allowed the sensation to consume her, to guide her to the sweet precipice she craved.

     “Feels so good,” Bjoren muttered deliriously.

     As their rutting became more passionate, her knees slid on the sheets, and she buried her face in the pillow beneath her. Sweat dripped down her back to the base of her neck, where a wild tangle of hair soaked it up. She listened to the grunts that punctuated every hard plunge and felt the way Bjoren’s large hands swallowed her hips, how his short nails dug into her skin. She didn’t have time to think on any similarities to her other experiences; the throbbing in her pelvis amplified, heralding her abrupt descent and scattering her half-formed thoughts. The thumb on her sensitive, hooded flesh continued working her through it, and her spine arched, her mouth falling open in a silent gasp. She was paralyzed, intently focused, as she came.

     Bjoren’s cock slid out of her with a slick noise, and he pumped himself with a tight fist. He groaned softly when he came, the sound immediately followed by a spray of hot semen over Elyssa’s lower back. When he released her, she flopped over, still too inebriated to be concerned about the possible mess on the sheets, and he joined her on the other side of the bed. She was still tingling from the aftershocks of her orgasm, savoring them as they dwindled.

     In her mind, the pristine sheets were splashed with blood—such a gruesome sight was all too familiar to her, expected after sex. But, this time, she wasn’t sobbing, torn apart, and discarded at a Daedric prince’s feet. Rather, a handsome Nord was sprawled out next to her, one muscular forearm tucked under his head as he stared up at the ceiling in silent contemplation, and she was only slightly sore between her legs. It was an unnerving situation, one that left her senses itching. Feeling strangely vulnerable, she lifted the crumpled blanket and drew it up and over them. But she didn’t regret what they’d done, not for an instant. If anything, she was pleased that she could still enjoy sex, despite her trauma.

     Her movement drew Bjoren’s attention, and he rolled over, propping himself up with his elbow. “Hey, I meant to ask earlier, but I got a little _distracted._ Where do you come from?”

     Elyssa debated whether to tell him or not before ultimately deciding it wouldn’t hurt to be truthful—at least in something so trivial. She only slightly slurred when she told him, “A tiny place called Northsalt Village. It’s in northern Rivenspire. Daggerfall Covenant.”

     “War’s over,” he reminded her. He reached over to grab the mead, passing it to her. “There’s no Covenant anymore.”

     “I know. Old habits and all.”

     Bjoren nodded, accepting the bottle after she’d taken a hearty gulp and coughed lightly into her fist. “So, what brings you all the way to Ebonheart Pact, then?”

     “War’s over,” Elyssa huffed in response to his straight-faced mocking. Flicking her eyes down to her hands, which were clenched in the blanket across her breasts, she admitted, “My grandmother just passed away, so I sold the family farm and came here to make new memories to replace the old. It was… very painful.”

     “Will I be the first of those new memories, or are you going to try to forget me after you steal my mead and kick me out in the snow?”

     She hid a smile behind her hand and peered at him from under her lashes, admiring the way the shadows skirted around the masculine edges and planes of his impressive physique. “I wouldn’t kick you out in the snow. At least, not without your trousers.”

     “Hm. Deflecting, I see. Something like that could really wound a man’s pride, you know.”

     Laughing, relishing the sensation of enjoying herself, she reached out and placed a hand on his arm. “Yes, you… you silly man. You’re the first of those new memories.”

     Bjoren’s dark eyes glittered in the firelight. “Well, how about that. Here’s hoping we make a few more before we part.”


	13. A Boon is Not Always a Blessing

> _“My last champion threw my mace into the ocean as an act of ‘defiance.’ I summoned it back to Oblivion before it reached the ocean bed.”_ Molag Bal tilted his head to the side, his cold gaze momentarily faraway. _“Yes. His screams are in here somewhere.”_

_19th Day of Sun’s Dusk_

     Around Bjoren, Elyssa hardly recognized what she’d become. She was comfortable, even a little confident—enough to lay completely nude beneath his gaze and not feel the compulsion to reach for the covers. When his appreciative eyes swept over her, she flushed with delight as his lips quirked into that little smile of his. He wasn’t repulsed by her thin, malnourished body or small breasts; he couldn’t keep his hands off of them. Her sheared hair didn’t offend him; he ran his fingers through it enough. She didn’t curl up under the weight of expectations or judgments; he had none to give.

     The time spent lounging in the Cold Moon Inn was one of the laziest, most relaxing days she could remember having.

     “What?” Elyssa demanded between chortles. “What _is_ that?”

     “Come, now, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the ‘cricket on a leaf’!” Bjoren countered, circling one of her hip bones with his index finger. “They might seem stuck-up and prissy, but the Altmer have some of the most adventurous positions.”

     “You just made that up!” she squealed, gently batting at his hand when it crept across her inner thigh. “ _Noo_ , stop tickling me. I can’t stand it.”

     “But you really need to watch out for those damn drunken Nords,” he continued, swinging his muscular thigh over her legs and pinning her down by the knees. He took a swig from his mug before smirking down at her.

     Struck silent, Elyssa watched with wide, excited eyes as he deliberately held her in suspense.

     Bjoren tilted his mug over her abdomen and let the warm alcohol spill into the concave of her bellybutton. It quickly overflowed, sending rivulets trickling down her pale flesh and soaking her pubic hair, and she twitched under the sensation.

     “Can’t be bothered to waste a single drop.” With a half-lidded stare full of sinful promises, he shifted back and lowered his head.

     This time, her fingers went for the covers—to grip a handful of them.

     Maybe it was part of her yearning for affection after so much abuse, or maybe it was the potent combination of mead and hours of sex. Maybe it was the stories they shared in between lovemaking sessions. Whatever it was, she felt an inexplicable connection to him, as if a newly repaired piece of her would be torn away when they parted.

     Elyssa didn’t love him; they’d only just met. She didn’t know him well enough to develop such strong feelings in a short amount of time, but she could reasonably envision a future with him, if she made it that far. In her lonely existence, he was the only person she had. She wondered—did he feel the same way, or was he already thinking of his next destination? It was difficult to read him.

     “They don’t give enough credit to the Khajiit,” Bjoren burst out suddenly. To Elyssa’s mortification, he was standing in front of the uncovered window completely nude while contemplating the rising sun.

     “What? Who are ‘they’?” She jumped up to grab his arm and pull him away. “By the gods, stop traumatizing all of Windhelm. So, do you want to get something to eat? My treat.”

     “That’s what I’m talking about: food. They have some really delicious, earthy flavors, but it’s all about the Orcs and their master chefs these days. You have to appreciate a race that can make bamboo and leaves look edible.”

     “Fine, we’ll get you some bamboo.”

     “Here?” He barked out a laugh and shook his head. “We’ll have mead and a fat leg of mutton. I wouldn’t trust these savages with anything other than a spit and fire.”

     From what he’d told her, Bjoren was a man of travel, a rare breed of Nord who had no qualms about expanding the scope of his world beyond his mountainous, chilly home country. In his short life, he’d seen everything, done everything, and met everyone. A book about his experiences would take a year to read and a decade to fully absorb.

     Admittedly, she grew more envious as he regaled his tales to her. In her time spent on Nirn, she’d barely traveled across half of her own country, and her journey was tinged with despondency. She didn’t have the luxury of experiencing, not with a phantom bruise on her back where she’d been repeatedly prodded along by her master. She would never know the red-clay valleys of Reaper’s March or taste a pig that had been roasted in the ground for six hours—or partake in the sacred fertility rituals of the Black Marsh. Her mouth was clogged with bitter ash, and she couldn’t enjoy the heat of the sun anymore. As a specter, she could only drift.

     For that day, she was content, knowing her responsibilities were worlds away in the Land of Tomorrow.

 _Tomorrow_ , she told herself, _I will return to my mission._ _Tomorrow, I will worry about what Molag Bal wants._

     But tomorrow came all too soon, bringing with it painful sobriety and a lump of cold resignation that dropped into her stomach, filling the space and denying her the ability to eat. How could she, knowing something awful awaited her outside of the temporary solace she’d erected with Bjoren? How could she, knowing their time together had come to an end?

     Elyssa couldn’t bear to ruin their memories with fumbled half-truths and unhappy good-byes, so…

     She just left. With a brush of her lips across his stubbled cheek and a whisper of gratitude, she collected her belongings and left the inn, tearing away that newly repaired part of herself and locking it behind her. Where she was going, there was no place for confidence or happiness; there was only single-minded purpose and doing everything in her power to fulfill Molag Bal’s desires.

     Windhelm was more cheerful than she’d given it credit; in the daytime, it didn’t look all that different from any other town she’d been to, with the exception of the thick blanket of snow. It wasn’t as sinister as one would expect, considering the Daedric shrine hiding somewhere in its white-capped foothills. The streets were littered with residents and visitors alike, the air tinged with their sounds of barter. There was a fast-paced energy bouncing between the looming walls, as everyone seemed to have someplace to get to in a hurry. As a major trading hub and the capital of Eastmarch, Windhelm was clearly the place to go for what one was looking for.

     Elyssa, in particular, was looking for a sturdy restoration staff. She knew she needed to be off, but she couldn’t disappear into the unknown without one, not when it might possibly mean the difference between bleeding out or returning fully intact. The wilds of Skyrim were foreign to her, and she wanted to be prepared for anything.

     As she walked, her long coat dragged through the powder and left a trail. She laced her fingers together behind her back under her coat to keep them warm, and she craned her neck to see over people’s shoulders. Alchemy ingredients, freshly baked food and brewed mead, weapons shiny and hot off the forge—there was just about everything out on display.

     Elyssa largely went unnoticed as she strolled by, and she was fine with that. Licking her chapped lips, she eyed the different flavors of mead. As tempting as it sounded, she knew inebriation and freezing temperatures were a potentially fatal combination. On she went, absentmindedly mulling over if she’d enjoy the taste of blackberry mead.

     “Affordable staves in everything from maple to ruby ash! Whether you’re more inclined toward restoration or destruction, we have them both!”

     Elyssa followed the feminine voice, stopping in front of a woodworking stall. She trailed her hand over the smooth ruby ash of the display, admiring the delicate ironwork and jewelry encircling it. Since arriving in Windhelm, she’d been fairly frivolous with her money. It pained her to turn her eyes away, but there was some part of her that still knew it wasn’t wise to empty her coin purse out on something so unnecessarily extravagant, not when her healing skills were mediocre at best.

     “Beautiful choice,” the merchant, an Argonian woman, complimented, smiling up at her with slitted eyes. She swept her hand across the rest of her staves lining the counter. “Or would you prefer something less ornate? I deal in function, as well.”

     Elyssa studied the selection with a critical eye but said nothing. They all looked so _expensive._

     “I also take requests and can have it out by the end of the week,” she added quickly. “What’s your preference? Altmer, Breton? No… I know—Daedric! I know a man who collects Daedric staves and can perfectly mimic the craftsmanship, even down to the little symbols.”

     “No, thank you,” Elyssa said softly. “I just need something functional at the moment; it doesn’t have to be pretty. What do you have in maple? Restoration, please.”

     The Argonian merchant hummed in her throat and turned to the rack behind her. She noisily shuffled through it for several moments. Finally, she turned around with a pale staff in her hands. The hilt and top were set with dark iron, with the tip cradling a cream-colored jewel. It was almost as tall as Elyssa was.

     “That’s not—”

     “—Yes, but it would be a shame to send you off with a hunk of useless wood,” she mused, turning the staff over in her hands. “You will get better results with birch; it has a magical vein running through it.”

     “Even so, I can’t really afford to pay more,” Elyssa mumbled, shuffling her feet. “Maple is fine for now.”

     “The owner never came back for it. It’s such a waste that it has to sit and collect dust when it was made to save lives. And such a classic style—ancient elf. I’ll sell it to you for the price of a maple staff.”

     “Oh… you don’t have to do that, really.”

     The merchant shrugged. “I want to. I can’t really explain it, but I sense that your day could stand to be brightened. It’s something in your eyes. Something sad.”

     Elyssa’s lips briefly parted in shock before curling into a faint smile. “Well, I’m very appreciative. The staff is beautiful, and I would love to have it.”

     It didn’t take them very long to haggle over the price. Despite her resolve to save money, Elyssa ended up sliding a few extra coins across the counter when the Argonian woman’s attention turned elsewhere, and she tucked her new restoration staff into the crook of her arm, enjoying the sense of protection it shrouded her with. She admired the sleek design and the sparkle of the jewel under the sun, how the pale wood contrasted nicely against her dark fur coat.

     She was ready to face whatever Molag Bal had planned.

* * *

     Beyond the gates of Windhelm, Elyssa glided across a bridge that kept her aloft over an ice-encrusted stream. Just the sight of the blue water and the frozen chunks bobbing at the surface made her shiver—though it could’ve been the frigid wind that carved its way through her very skin. Without the protection of the high walls, the full brunt of Skyrim hit her, and she wrapped her arms tightly around herself and cast a doubtful look into the distance, where white nothingness peeked out between thick tree trunks.

     “You look ill-prepared to go out there on your own,” one of the gate guards lazily called after her. His tone suggested boredom—that he was making conversation for the sake of entertainment, rather than true concern for her well-being. “Do you have food and water hidden somewhere in there? A map? It’ll keep a fire going for a while. Won’t help you much otherwise.”

     The young Breton drew her coat tighter around herself. Reaching for the pack tied around her waist, she patted it down. Her coin purse and knife were comforting weights against her hip. “I have some food and water. I expect to find shelter before a fire is needed.”

     The other guard chuckled sardonically. “Clearly, you mustn’t be from around here. It’s easy to get turned around when everything is the same damned color. Where are you headed all alone, anyway?”

     Wordlessly, Elyssa turned her head around and studied the frozen expanse of Eastmarch stretching ahead of her. As her eyes flitted over a certain point to the east, her senses tickled with a strange sort of urgency. It was her master’s intangible will; she was compelled to heed it.

     “Well?”

     “I’ll be fine,” she said without turning back around. “I know where I’m going.”

     “There are wolves and bandits out there,” the first guard added. “My nephew even swears he saw some dragon bones come to life.”

     “Gods, tell him to stop drinking so much already,” the second guard muttered, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “It’s not right. She died _ten years_ ago.”

     Elyssa glanced back at them warily. “Oh, there are worse things than that out there.”

     They snorted at her answer and turned their heads away, signaling the end of the conversation. She took that as her cue to traverse the last stretch of bridge and step off onto the barest glimpses of cobbled path, gradually uncovered by the people who’d traveled it that day. Inhaling a mouthful of air and wincing at the resulting sting in her lungs, she set off, dutifully following the path south until it weaved, snake-like, to the east.

     The farther she went—curling around hills, descending slopes, and hopping off embankments—the more the path faded beneath her. All too soon, her pace slowed as she had to yank her boots out of each print she left and lift her legs high enough to clear a couple more feet each time. The sun hovered overhead, but the snow remained steadfast, unaffected by the warm rays. The effort sapped her of her energy. Her fingers had long-since grown numb, and her ears, burning in the wintry air, were poorly protected by her hair. She clasped her hands over them, but she couldn’t produce any heat to alleviate the pain. Cupping her hands in front of her mouth, she blew on them.

     The signs posted along Elyssa’s journey were incomprehensible with the carved letters frosted over, but she didn’t even glance at them. She was thoroughly lost, unfamiliar with everything around her, but she relied on that nagging urge to guide her in the right direction. Part of her acknowledged that she was wholeheartedly placing her confidence in a Daedric prince, trusting that she wouldn’t find herself stranded where she could easily freeze to death, but she tried not to think too deeply into it.

     An hour later, she lost feeling in everything below her knees, making her feel like a newborn tottering on unfamiliar muscles. More than once, she lost her balance and had to grasp onto a nearby tree, scraping up her palms on the jagged bark in the process. She dropped her staff twice and almost lost it when the flurry began anew. It was still afternoon, but the sky was blotted out by gray clouds, casting a dim shroud over Eastmarch and making it seem much later.

     The foreign feeling within her became stronger and stronger, generating an anxious energy that was impossible to ignore. Every inch of her body that she could feel was yearning to find Molag Bal’s shrine for a sense of completion. She needed it—desperately, more than anything. Her senses all but throbbed as she took a step, two steps, three.

 _It’s here,_ she thought, relieved. _I’ve made it. Finally._

     Four steps, five.

     Her feet wobbled on the unsteady ground, and she stumbled forward, catching herself on another convenient tree. She hissed at the dull ache spreading through her calves, panting, before pushing off and continuing.

     Six steps, seven. Eight.

     With her last step, the urge suddenly spilled out, leaving her hollow and incomplete. Her cracked lips parted in horror, and her eyes darted around, chasing it, to no avail. It was gone, leaving her stranded in the downpour.

     Elyssa squeezed her eyes shut against a wave of tears and wiped at her nose, which burned as she tried to hold back her sobs. It had been a trick. _I should’ve known..._

     The cold was extremely dangerous, and she’d been in it for far too long. She was too numb to walk more than one hundred steps in an hour and would never make it back to Windhelm before nightfall. She didn’t have the means to build a fire and didn’t know her way to a temporary shelter. Ill-prepared, she’d fallen for Molag Bal’s cruel deception entirely. She was going to die as a frozen husk, something to feed the wolves. Worst of all, she’d ignored all of her sensibilities and done it to herself for the amusement of a Daedric prince. What would her father think?

_“I did something bad,” young Elyssa mumbled despondently. Cradled in her green-stained hands were the crumpled petals of a columbine—yet another ruined specimen. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I know how rare they are. It’s just… when I saw it, I didn’t want to leave it there in case I forgot where it was.”_

_“That’s all right, my sweet,” he soothed, taking the remains of the plant from her and setting them aside on his workbench. He reached down and picked her up, cupping the back of her head as she sniffled on his shoulder. “I’ve been a little too rough with a few ingredients in my day; it happens. Here, let me show you this tool I have to make it easier to harvest. But you’ve got to promise me that you’ll be careful when using it, okay? You’re infinitely more important to me than a flower.”_

     The thought of him brought an inkling of comfort through her despair.

_“Three stirs, right?” Elyssa called across the room. She was perched on a foot stool so she could see over the side of the cauldron, which was bubbling with a sweet-smelling concoction. “Or was it four?”_

_“Yes, yes,” her father responded distractedly, scrawling something in his notebook. His fingers were pressed against his temple, his brow wrinkled with a rare show of worry—though it was becoming increasingly commonplace on him._

_“Never mind, I remember now. I just need to add some of this, and it’ll be ready, right?” Impatient with the silence, she picked up a few sprigs of thistle and sprinkled it into the mixture._

_“The thistle is on the second shelf to the right,” he finally said, running his fingers through his short hair and rising from his chair. “Two leaves should do it.”_

_“Done,” she chirped happily, clapping her hands at the success of her first potion. She turned away to clean up her workstation. “I hope it works!”_

_On his way past, her father did a double-take when a foul odor hit him full-force. He hurried to Elyssa’s side and gawked at her potion, which had turned as black as tar. “Elyssa… were there any flowers on that thistle you just used?”_

_“Yes, little purple ones. Why?”_

_Rendered speechless, he continued staring down at Elyssa’s first poison. When he patiently explained her mistake, she broke down into inconsolable tears._

_“I’m sure somebody will want it,” he told her, rubbing her back and raising his voice to be heard over her wails. “Just please try to keep it away from the others; we don’t want anybody to get hurt. Let’s move it outside so we don’t inhale the fumes.”_

     No, she couldn’t give up. He never wanted that from her.

     Elyssa spun around to gauge her surroundings. In doing so, her foot was snagged by something hidden in the snow, twisting her ankle and sending her hopelessly crashing to the ground. The landing jarred her frozen limbs terribly, and she rolled onto her side in silent agony. Gritting her teeth, she used the hilt of her restoration staff to dig through the snow to uncover her attacker.

     It was a rusty iron ring.

     Overtaken with a surge of hope, she drove her staff down again and again to shatter the layer of ice around it, and she cleared the muddy shards away, revealing the weathered surface of a trapdoor. Her fingers twitched, and she reached for the ring. Lifting herself up, she yanked at the trapdoor, working it out of the mud that glued it in place. With a sharp crack, the door came loose and swung open, revealing a narrow set of stairs leading underground. With the aid of her staff, she lowered herself through the door.

     That first step was like coming home; a potent sense of satisfaction and completion washed over her, and she savored the musty air. Carefully descending the stairs, her attention was drawn by the torches that flared to life at her approach. Warmth from the blue fire thawed her from the inside-out. She sighed with pleasure and took a moment to bask in the heat while wiping the wet mucus from her face with her sleeve.

     Before her was a long corridor set with obsidian horned sconces beneath a low ceiling. Cracked urns and amphoras of varying sizes lined the walls, accompanied by little piles of gold coins and multicolored jewels that blazed with crystalline grace in the low firelight. Daedric symbols were cut into the stone walls and sticky with red. A dusty dark-blue runner beckoned her forward into the dim depths beyond the next archway.

     Elyssa picked her path through several makeshift cots and abandoned rucksacks without giving a thought to who they belonged to. Racks fitted with drooping skeletons and dripping with busted chains replaced the urns, and the gruesome bloodstain—long-since dried—of a mangled body being dragged across the floor took the place of the runner. Daggers and rope were piled at the base of spiked manacles that were driven into the wall.

     She tried not to look at any of it.

     The next archway led into the main chamber of the cave. A familiar dais, encircled with ceremonial unlit candles, was the centerpiece of the room. Between sconces, drapes of Coldharbour-blue spilled down the walls and led up to the dais, sparkling with lines of tiny Daedric symbols.

     The focal point, of course, was Molag Bal himself.

     Elyssa clasped her hands together and took small steps toward his intimidating projection, which filled the room from floor to high ceiling. Weeks had passed since she last laid eyes on him, but their time apart from each other hadn’t buried the spark that ignited her fear. It was trained into her, second nature at the sight of him. It always would be—just how he wanted her. Finally, her legs gave out, and she fell to her knees before him, a pebble hiding in the shadow of a mighty oak. “Master.”

     “Little champion,” he drawled, swinging his reptilian tail to the side. “At last, we meet again. You have obeyed my order as well as I could have expected from you, so I will graciously forgive your dalliance.”

     “Thank you,” she whispered, not wanting to be heard but feeling inclined to acknowledge his rare mercy. Her time spent with Bjoren didn’t bring shame; she’d never regret it, even if punishment had awaited her.

     “In fact, I will even reward you.” Molag Bal glanced down at the dais, where a spiked mace appeared between his feet.

     Elyssa stared uncomprehendingly at the wicked object. Its aura, wafting through the cavern like the foul stench of a carcass, prickled her skin altogether unpleasantly. It was wider than her rib cage and as long as her entire arm, and its presence filled her with dread. She didn’t want to be in the same room with it.

     “My last champion threw my mace into the ocean as an act of ‘defiance.’ I summoned it back to Oblivion before it reached the ocean bed.” Molag Bal tilted his head to the side, his cold gaze momentarily faraway. “Yes. His screams are in here somewhere.”

     Uneasy, she nibbled on her lower lip and clutched her restoration staff as gooseflesh broke out along her arms.

     “Do refrain from taking a similar route, if you can manage it,” he advised, sweeping his eyes over her.

     Elyssa dared to think she knew him well enough to say he was in a good mood, which frightened her more than his anger. Knowing her journey had been slow, in direct violation of his last order, she couldn’t fathom why he felt the desire to reward her. Her gooseflesh spread, and her body was overtaken with a violent shiver, despite the comfortable temperature.

     “Cold?” he asked. He didn’t have the capacity to smile, but it was audible in his voice. With a curl of his fingers, he lit the candles arranged around his dais and lining the grooves in the walls.

     Elyssa’s terror grew. She stammered, “W-what am I… What am I to do w-with that?”

     “You wield it in my name,” Molag Bal informed her. “I am bestowing some of my power upon you. In return, you strengthen me with your kills.”

     “But I—”

     “—Pick it up,” the Daedric prince ordered abruptly, uninterested in her protests.

     Elyssa reluctantly scooted closer to the mace and her imposing master, shrinking under the weight of his stare. Transferring her staff to her left hand, she reached out to lay her fingers on the hilt of the mace. At first, the steel was cold to the touch, but it slowly warmed up beneath her hand, as if it recognized her. It took the last of her strength to push herself to her feet, and she managed to lift the mace a few inches off of the dais before the full weight of it became terribly clear to her.

     She couldn’t hold it for more than a few seconds before a muscle in her back strained, prompting her to let go. The mace crashed to the ground, narrowly missing her toes and toppling a few candles. Spidery cracks marred the stone beneath it as a testament to the force of its impact. Horror-struck, she slapped her free hand over her mouth and stared down at the fallen weapon, unable to bring herself to look up and gauge Molag Bal’s expression.

     “I’m sorry,” she choked out, fearing his reaction. “I mean no disrespect.”

     But Molag Bal only hummed noncommittally. “Truly, you are determined to prove your worthlessness to me. Try again.”

     Elyssa set down her staff so she could use both hands. Hunching over, she grasped the mace and braced herself with bent knees. It was so ridiculously heavy; she couldn’t lift it high enough to even use it as a weapon. It clattered to the ground again with a shrill ringing.

     “Again.”

     Her third attempt was met with the same result, though she was able to move it away from the dais a few more inches.

     “Again,” he repeated.

     “I… I—I can’t do it.” Humiliated, Elyssa’s face dropped. “Molag Bal, I’m not strong enough to wield your mace.”

     “Disappointing,” he quipped coldly. “Fine. Attempt it now.”

     Doubtful, she glanced down at it. Visibly unchanged, it promised to pull a muscle and seriously injure her if she kept trying to lift it. She was reluctant to continue embarrassing herself with fruitless attempts.

     “ _Now._ ”

     Sucking in a breath, with her heart jumping in her chest, the young Breton wrapped her hands around the hilt and tensed her muscles in preparation. When she yanked at it, the mace immediately flew from the ground, sending her teetering back and tripping over the train of her coat. Falling on her backside, she held the mace at eye level, marveling at how weightless the hunk of solid steel seemed.

     Much heavier was the realization that he’d only wanted to watch her struggle—that even his rewards were punishment. How could she have not realized right away? As soon as she thought she could predict him the slightest bit, he knocked her completely off-balance once again, proving that she knew absolutely nothing about the Daedric Prince of Brutality.

     Ever the submissive servant, Elyssa looked up at Molag Bal and awaited his next words.

     “You will stay here in my chamber tonight,” he informed her. “On the morrow, I have plans for you, in which my mace will be instrumental. Honor it as you would your own beating heart—I expect nothing less.”

     “Yes, Master.” Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she dared to ask, “What is happening tomorrow?”

     Ignoring her question, he purred sinisterly, “Pleasant dreams, little one,” and dissipated.

     Clinging to the mace of Molag Bal, Elyssa stared at the dais, soaking in the heat from the fire he’d generously left behind. Sweat pooled under her neck and beneath her clothing, but she trembled, nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes About the Story:**  
>  \- What is a champion without a Daedric prince's favor? Please forgive any obvious mistakes. I had to rush to get this out today, and I may have gotten a little sloppy in some parts.  
> \- I'm getting far too excited about the next story in this series. I need to focus and finish this one.  
> \- Dates have been added to the chapters for more clarification.  
> \- Finally, I wrote this to a repeat of Richaadeb's cover of _Miami Disco_ by Perturbator.


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